


Death shall have no dominion

by too_much_pressure_for_a_username



Category: Rick and Morty
Genre: BAMF Morty, Blow Jobs, Canonical Character Death, Dubious Consent, Dubious Morality, Evil Morty is a yandere, Guilt, I know nothing about taxidermy, Incest, Jealousy, M/M, Mild Gore, Mild Smut, Praise Kink, Taxidermy, Unhealthy Relationships, morty is a creep, unnacurate taxidermy details
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-26
Updated: 2017-05-01
Packaged: 2018-09-12 08:49:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Underage
Chapters: 12
Words: 36,858
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9064759
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/too_much_pressure_for_a_username/pseuds/too_much_pressure_for_a_username
Summary: "You d-don't have a clue w-what love is, Morty," Rick tells him. "You're not c-capable of loving anything b-besides yourself and, and your c-creepy little stuffed animals."There's something about the way Rick says this, something hollow and dead that tells him Rick isn't lying or trying to get back at him for lashing out. The wild anger has dissipated. And if Rick isn't saying this because he's mad at Morty......Then he's saying it because he really believes it.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hey everyone, I'm new to this community (as in this is my first time posting a story here but I've been low-key stalking my favorite fanfic writers here for years) and this is my first fanfic of Rick and Morty. I wanted to post my own take on Evil Morty a.k.a. Eyepatch Morty from "Close Rickcounters of the Rick kind."  
> Please note that I have no knowledge whatsoever of taxidermy so a lot of the info here is bullshit. The story's not finished yet so I will try to do some research about it before writing the last chapter.  
> Any feedback and constructive criticism would be welcome :) I haven't written in a long time and don't have much confidence in my writing skills, so if you have any pearls of wisdom for me, they would be much appreciated.

The world outside is still half plunged up in darkness, tinged with the faint pale glow of early morning. Inside, the room is lit up with a flood of white neon light ; it’s almost six o’ clock and Morty Smith has been up for several hours already, hard at work with his tools laid out in front of him.

Though his bedroom is one of the spaciest rooms in the house, it looks smaller because of how cluttered it is : it’s filled with books and old childhood toys and other junk Morty just couldn’t bring himself to throw away. But what truly makes the room look at least twice as narrow as it is are the shelves fixed on the walls : twelve of them in total, filled with dozens of little birds –sparrows to be exact. Some of them look clunkier than others (glass eyes slightly lopsided, bits of straw showing at the seams), but overall the illusion of life is remarkably well achieved. They look as plain and unremarkable in death as they did in life. For a split second, the light of dawn pierces into the neon-lit bedroom : it falls on the stuffed sparrows and makes the dusty brown color of their feathers richer and deeper ; the yellowish tint of their bellies blazes like gold, and the blank glass marbles flash like the eyes of a feverish child.

But Morty Smith isn’t looking at the birds, doesn’t even spare them a glance. His attention is focused on one thing only, that which he holds in his hands : the body of a squirrel. Although already past the prime of its youth, the animal is undoubtedly a fine specimen : Morty’s eyes scrutinize the thick coat of reddish fur, the sharpness of the tiny claws ; his fingers trace the outline of lean, taut muscles, still vigorous despite the creature’s age.

The smell of formaldehyde is strong in his nostrils as Morty takes a small, wet towel in his hand and starts wiping firmly, but cautiously at the squirrel’s sharp little teeth. He knows how important it is to keep them white and as spotless as possible : prolong the illusion of life. Push back the inevitable signs of death and decay, if he can’t negate them altogether.

The stuffed animal stares back at him with round, dark eyes ; he wipes at those too, makes sure any residue of dust or dirt is completely eliminated. A live squirrel would never let dust get in its eyes ; it needs its sharp vision to find precious nuts and fruit for its survival. Morty aims to immortalize the image of a healthy, strong animal in its natural environment, and he’s pretty proud of himself ; the only sign of decay showing is the rodent’s naturally silver hair, a little white tuft on its nose –after all, it was already pretty old when Morty had stuffed it.

He feels the accusatory glare of a dozen of smaller, blacker eyes staring at him from all corners of his bedroom, reminding him that this should not be his priority right now. Sighing, he gives the squirrel’s teeth a final polish before putting the animal back in its place, on the highest shelf. Then he reluctantly goes back to what he was working on before his temporary distraction : a small, puny bird carcass he has yet to immortalize.

Before he can fully concentrate again, hurried footsteps make their way to his bedroom door. He recognizes them instantly and braces himself for the inevitable breach of his privacy ; what on Earth could they want from him so early in the morning ?

True to himself, his father bursts into the room, shouting excitedly : “Morty, your mom’s here and she’d like you to meet someone very special!”

Morty grits his teeth, tries to stay calm. After a couple breaths, he lets go of his tools and the bird carcass. He looks up at his dad, a completely deadpan expression on his face. “Jerry,” he says coldly. “W-What did I say about c-coming into my room w-without knocking?”

His father tenses visibly, taking a few steps back. He raises a hand to scratch at the back of his neck –something a lot of people in his family seem to do when they’re embarrassed, Morty has noticed—offering his son an apologetic smile. “D-don’t do it?” he asks timidly.

“Af-affirmative,” Morty says in a toneless voice, returning his attention to the dead bird. He waits for Jerry to slowly walk out of the room and close the door behind him, which he dutifully does. Then there are three little knocks, and his mother’s voice calls out to him –no doubt after having reprimanded his father for forgetting the rule again, Morty thinks. “Morty, sweetie ? Is it okay if we come in ?”

Morty answers without raising his head from his work. “Come in, Beth.”

He hears two sets of footsteps enter the room ; one is his mother’s, and the other is… New. It’s not his father’s, he’s sure of it ; he doesn’t think it’s his sister’s either, although he’s not as good as recognizing the sound of her footsteps, seeing as she’s always hanging out at one friend or another’s house. So there’s a new person in the house. Morty tenses, keeps his gaze lowered : he doesn’t like new people.

His mother starts speaking again, her voice nervous like it always is whenever she talks to him. But it’s trembling with something else, too… Joy ? Excitement ?

“Morty, honey, something amazing has happened. Do you mind putting down your toys for a minute, so I can introduce you to someone very special ?”

Morty’s brow flickers in annoyance at the word “toys.” Beth is nice enough and she’s certainly not as aggravating as her husband, but that doesn’t mean she doesn’t set him off at times. Nevertheless, he lets go of his tools for the second time and slowly raises his face to look at the newcomer. His mother is standing next to a tall, lanky man dressed in a white lab coat and khaki trousers. His silhouette is skinny but lean, with long arms and legs that most people would describe as “gangly,” as if he hadn’t fully outgrown that awkward teenage phase. Yet it’s clearly obvious that the man is very old –probably between sixty-five and eighty, Morty would say. His face is wrinkly and strangely ashen, as if he wasn’t used to seeing much of the sunlight ; his hair is a striking, light blue color and sticks up in all different directions, like some kind of crazy electric starfish. His eyes are a pale blue color, so clear that they remind Morty of glass marbles –cold, hypnotizing glass marbles. They sparkle with light and intelligence as the man looks at the room then at him, and Morty feels like he can see through his skin and all the way down to his internal organs ; these eyes are full of energy and of a long-lasting, never-aging passion for something –for what, Morty doesn’t know yet.

Beth puts her hand on the stranger’s arm, looking at him as if he were some kind of divine being sent from above. The man smiles fondly back at her before his eyes flicker back to Morty and the bird carcass lying before him. “Sweetie, I’d like you to meet Rick,” Beth says, voice tight with emotion. “He’s my father… And your grandfather.” The young woman lets go of her father to put her hand on Morty’s hair, not ruffling it or anything but just laying it there, which makes him feel awkward. “Dad, this is Morty,” Beth smiles at the old man. “Your grandson.”

Morty resists the temptation to roll his eyes ; he thinks that last bit would have been pretty easy to infer without her input. But Rick doesn’t comment on the unnecessary explanation, just nods at Morty and grins. “M-Morty, huh,” he says, his voice sounding gruff and hoarse –probably from smoking, Morty thinks. “N-nice to meet you, b-buddy.”

The stutter is light and sounds casual enough, but it’s impossible not to notice. Morty smiles inwardly ; he’d been mocked and singled out plenty of times for stuttering as a little kid, but there’s something ironic about seeing such an old, intelligent-looking man dealing with the same problem as him. At least that’s one thing they have in common ; Morty wonders if Rick’s mom –his great-grandmother—also insisted that he go to a speech therapist.

“Nice t-to meet y-you too, R-Rick,” he smiles back at the old man. He doesn’t miss the way Beth gasps lightly. He really can’t blame her ; usually he doesn’t react this positively to newcomers introducing themselves to him. His mother explains it by saying he “takes a while to warm up to people;” Morty thinks he’s just better at choosing what kind of people he wants to warm up to.

Before Beth can embarrass him further, Jerry pokes his head in through the open door. “Morty, Rick’s your grandfather!” he hisses at his son, furrowing his eyebrows in a way that tries and fails to be intimidating. “You have to call him grandpa!”

Morty can already see his mother rolling her eyes but it’s Rick himself who reacts the fastest, turning back to Jerry to snort at him.

"Oh, p-piss off, party p-pooper," he barks. "A-as long as the k-kid doesn’t c-call me Jerry, I don’t g-give a shit!" He bursts out laughing at his own joke, followed –not that surprisingly—by Beth. Even Morty cracks a small smile, as Jerry stalks off into the hallway, angrily muttering something about "language."

"S-so, what’cha d-doing there w-with that bird, M-Morty ?" Rick asks, studying the carcass with genuine interest.

"J-just a bit of t-taxidermy," Morty answers shyly, feeling himself blush under the attention.

"It’s Morty’s hobby," Beth pipes up. "He’s very passionate about it. He rarely does anything else."

Morty doesn’t miss the hint of annoyance in her voice, no matter how carefully it’s dissimulated behind her smile. He’s distracted from it when Rick raises his eyebrows and sits next to him on the bed –something he doesn’t mind as much as he should.

"Ooooh, t-taxidermy, huh ? I-I used to be, to be pretty into t-that myself, uuurrrp, w-when I was your age, M-Morty. Spent d-days working on a dead p-parrot I found. S-so what are you working on n-now ?"

"M-mostly sparrows," Morty answers truthfully, a bit embarrassed to not have anything more interesting projects at the moment. "Th-there isn’t r-really much o-of anything else h-here. I already h-have a d-dozen of them ; b-but at least it’s g-good practice."

"W-well, Morty, practice’s important," Rick says, looking around at all the little stuffed birds perched on Morty’s shelves. "Y-you never know w-when it might come in handy. I-I have to s-say," he chuckles good-naturedly, "it l-looks like you d-did a much b-better job than I d-did when I was your age."

"If you’d like, y-you could help m-me," Morty offers abruptly, feeling stupid almost immediately after. "W-with the birds, I mean. I-if you w-want to, of course."

"That’d be great!" his mother exclaims suddenly, shocking them both by reminding them of her presence in the room. "It’d be a great way for you two to spend time together! You know Morty, I’m sure your grandpa could give you all sorts of interesting advice ; he’s a very talented scientist and inventor."

Morty looks at Rick, closely examining his person. This information doesn’t surprise him much ; he’d guessed the man had to be involved with some kind of manual work, given the kind of hands he had. They were big and rough-looking, with long, spidery fingers that had a certain undeniable grace to them : the kind of fingers that wouldn’t look out of place on a piano, Morty thought.

"R-really ?" he asks Rick nevertheless, wanting to hear it from the man himself. His grandfather grins proudly, putting both hands on his bony hips in a sort of superman pose.

"Y-yep, I’m a g-genius alright," he says, taking out a silver flask from his pocket and swigging from it. "And I’d be g-glad to h-help you with y-your taxidermy, a-and maybe show you some of m-my experiments, if you’re, if you’re into that sort of thing ?"

Morty feels himself smiling and nodding before he even has time to think it over.

"Th-that sounds great," he hears himself saying.

What is he doing ? This isn’t at all the way he usually acts. He feels all warm and bubbly inside, kind of like he’s going to be sick –but in a good way. What is wrong with him ?

He’s distracted from his thoughts by Rick crossing his room with two long strides and walking over to his shelf, gesturing at the old stuffed squirrel. "W-whoa, who’s th-this little guy ?"

Morty’s heart beats a little faster, like it always does anytime anyone mentions his proudest achievement.

"Th-that’s my squirrel," he says quite unnecessarily, before cursing at his own stupidity. "I f-found him in the park two years ago," he adds quickly. "It’s the b-biggest and coolest thing I ever w-worked on. The rest are j-just… sparrows," he finishes lamely, lowering his eyes again. He feels almost stressful for some stupid reason. The squirrel is his most prized possession after all : he’d worked so long on it and was immensely satisfied with the results. It was beautifully preserved, and the glass marbles Morty had gotten to replace his eyes sparkled so brightly that there was something uncannily lifelike about the stuffed animal ; it looked alert and strong despite the few, silver hairs that adorned its pointy nose, and Morty had given it a privileged place on the highest shelf so that he overlooked his army of little sparrows like a wise old emperor. He had no doubt that it was his finest work by far ; and for a reason he couldn’t fathom, it was extremely important for him that Rick felt the same way.

He waited patiently, heart in his throat, as Rick picked up the squirrel with caution, examined it under every angle, from his perky hairy ears to the tiny, sharp teeth in his maw.

"I-it’s a beautiful piece of w-work alright," Rick finally concludes, an appreciative smile on his face. "A f-fine animal too : little fella looks hella strong and as w-wise as me!"

He laughs at his own joke and Morty joins in : he was starting to understand that his grandfather wasn’t the most modest man in the world.

"I w-was really g-glad to have found him," he explains. "W-wished I had m-more like him, th-though. The s-sparrows look k-kind of plain in comparison, y-y’know ?"

Rick chews pensively on his lower lip, as if he were thinking over Morty’s remark. Morty’s eyes find themselves drawn to the thin, chapped lips and he blushes again, for some reason.

"I-I guess," Rick finally says, shrugging. "But y-y’know, j-just because th-they’re so small and, and cute, d-doesn’t mean they’ve got no f-fight in them. A-and just b-because this ol’fella looks so sharp," he says, looking at the squirrel, "doesn’t m-mean he can’t fall for a few tricks himself."

Before Morty has the time to mull over his grandfather’s enigmatic words, his mother’s voice calls them from downstairs, telling them that dinner is ready.

They make their way down the stairs together, and Morty nearly jumps out of his skin when a loud _boom_ resounds through the entire house, making the floor quake under his feet.

"Oh, d-don’t, uuurrrp, don’t mind that, M-Morty," Rick says with a dismissing wave of the hand. "Th-that’s just an experiment I’ve g-got cooking in th-the garage, it’s all fine."

As they sit down at the dinner table and Jerry immediately starts shrieking about "what the hell was that did that just come from the garage _ohmygod_ ," Morty knows without the shadow of a doubt that life in this boring little house is about to get a whole lot more adventurous.


	2. Chapter 2

The first time Rick takes him on an adventure, it’s at three in the morning.

Morty wakes up abruptly, startled by a noise in the hallway. The alarm clock on his bed stand shows 2 : 50 AM and he groans, wondering who could be up at such an ungodly hour. Even the glass eyes of his little birds look tired.

Before he has time to ponder any more, there’s the sound of light footsteps outside his door –the sound of someone trying to be quiet but falling short of their goal. Morty stays still in his bed, closes his eyes, pretending to be asleep ; there’d been times when he was still a little kid when one of his parents would walk into his room at night, just to « check up on him ». It was always awkward when they found Morty awake in his bed : they’d start asking him questions like if he was feeling ill, if he wanted a cup of warm tea, if he wanted them to tell him a bedtime story before going back to sleep. So Morty had gotten into the habit of faking sleep, just so he wouldn’t have to deal with all that ; if they didn’t think he was awake, they’d just arrange his covers a little better and leave the room.

But when the door opens and Morty cracks open an eye to see which one of his parents decided to « check up » on him tonight, he doesn’t see Beth or Jerry. Instead he sees Rick’s slightly crouched silhouette, a flask in his hand, clumsily stumbling into his room.

He keeps his eyes open and holds his breath, waiting quietly as Rick makes his way to his bed. The scientist leans over him, long silhouette swaying slightly like a tree in a storm.

"H-hey, Morty," he says in a hushed whisper that’s just a bit too loud. "Y-you awake, b-buddy ?"

Morty half sits up in his bed, rubs at his eyes as his vision adjusts to the darkness. Rick is grinning, an excited gleam in his eye that tells Morty he’s up to no good. Nevertheless, Morty nods.

"G-good," Rick says. "L-listen to me, M-Morty, listen good ; I-I need your help with s-something, Morty. G-grandpa needs to run a little, run a little errand in space, M-Morty, g-gonna get some materials for, for science. I could r-really use a, use an extra h-hand, Morty. W-what do you s-say ?"

The old man speaks quickly, his tone very business-like yet filled with a childish kind of trepidation. If it were anyone else in the world who had woken him up in the middle of the night to ask if they wanted to go to space with them, Morty would have told them to fuck off, plain and simple. But this was Rick asking him now ; so of course it was different.

"O-okay," he accepts quietly but without hesitation.

Even Rick looks a little taken aback by his prompt answer. But the initial shock soon wears off, replaced by full-on enthusiasm. "F-for real ? H-hot damn, that’s, that’s great, M-Morty!" he exclaims, before remembering that he’s supposed to be quiet.  "L-let’s go, then," he continues in a lower voice. "W-we got no, no time to l-lose, Morty."

In a matter of minutes Morty is up, getting dressed while Rick rambles on about the specifics of their expedition, half-whispering, half-shouting behind the bedroom door. When Morty emerges from his room, fully dressed in jeans and a t-shirt and still half asleep, Rick all but grabs his hand and drags him down the stairs, all the way to the garage.

Morty isn’t used to being in this part of the house. Before Rick arrived, it was filled with his father’s ratty old car, plastic chairs and patio furniture, boxes full of Summer and his old childhood toys, along with a bunch of other junk he couldn’t even recognize. But now the garage has been metamorphosed completely : there’s a work bench in a corner –Jerry had sworn he’d get around to installing one, but never had – cluttered with all sorts of tools and pieces of machinery. Rick has rearranged a dozen of empty cardboard boxes around the place, using them as makeshift shelves and cupboards. The walls are literally covered with hundreds of maps and blueprints, scrabbly notes in some strange language Morty doesn’t recognize and sketches for all kinds of weird inventions. But the biggest difference of all is the vehicle parked in the middle of the garage ; Jerry’s "piece of junk car," as Rick had called it, had been kindly moved to right outside the garage, where it was to stay permanently. What had taken its place was a sight to behold : a shiny, silvery vehicle about as big as a family van, equipped with all sorts of intriguing gadgets. Its flanks are covered with multiple cannons, wheels, helixes and other things that Morty can't even put a name on. The frontside of it is covered by a huge, rounded glass window that has a strange, fluorescent glint to it. The whole thing vaguely reminds Morty of a mysterious deep sea creature, one of those fish that only live in the darkest parts of the ocean and start growing all sorts of weird organs and luminescent body parts to defend themselves. 

Rick opens his arms like a magician showing off his greatest trick, gesturing proudly to the spaceship.

"S-so, uuurrrp, what do you, what’d you think, M-Morty ?"

Morty isn’t sure what to say. On the one hand, he’d be lying if he said he wasn’t impressed ; there’s definitely something sleek and futuristic-looking about the contraption, and it’s the first time of his life he’s actually looking at a real life spaceship. On the other hand, some parts of the ship do look a little clunky and out of context, some parts not quite fitting together as if they were added to the whole at the last minute.

 "I-I like the glass w-window," Morty comments, blaming how stupid he sounds on sleep deprivation.

But Rick keeps smiling, visibly not put down by Morty’s lack of reaction ; he curls his fingers and knocks steadily against said window, producing a dull sound.

"A-ain’t no g-glass, dawg," he says with a knowing wink. "I-it’s reinforced plexiglas, M-Morty, reinforced w-with, with uuh… L-let’s just uuurrrp, let’s just say I had to g-get it on the black m-market, Morty, b-but this baby was worth it. G-glass wouldn’t l-last a second in s-space."

Rick raises the reinforced plexigkas window with one hand and bends at an awkward angle to slink into the driver’s seat, buckling up his seatbelt. Morty does the same without a word, head too full of questions to ask anything.

"H-uuurrrp, hold on t-to your socks, M-Morty!" Rick exclaims before slamming his foot down on what Morty supposes is the gas pedal. He finds his back plastered against the seat as the spaceship blasts off, flying out the open garage door with a great whoosh sound and into the night sky.

After a few minutes of holding his breath and counting the panicked beats of his heart, Morty feels himself begin to relax. They’re already several kilometers above the Earth’s atmosphere, and he feels like he’s looking down on one of those pictures astronauts take of planets in space. The realization that he actually is in space right now makes his heart skip a beat and his hands tingle with excitement.

"W-wow," Morty says, turning towards his grandfather with a still shaky smile on his face. "Th-this is pretty amazing r-right now, R-Rick."

Rick grins right back at him, looking more pumped than ever as he drives them past strangely colored planets and shimmering galaxies. The genius scientist looks more comfortable right now, right here, than he’s ever been inside their little house in the suburbs: his long, lanky limbs are relaxed, the ship just spacey enough for him to spread out his legs as far as he wants to. His shoulders seem less tense too, the teen notices, not hunched over and stiff like they usually are when Rick sits at the family dinner table. And something else in his expression -the way his wrinkles appear softer, less noticeable- strikes Morty, tells him that here and now in space is where his grandfather truly feels at home.

"N-no, uuurrrp, no shit, M-Morty," he says, taking a big gulp from the flask that he always keeps in his lab coat pocket. "Th-this is where it’s at, y-y’know ? But we don’t, don’t exactly h-have the t-time to explore t-tonight, Morty, we’ll have t-to, to save it f-for another night. R-right now th-there’s a box of, box of Glufax crystal on planet Hexiblurm-7 th-that’s got my name on it."

As the spaceship speeds up, Morty notices that they’re approaching a relatively small planet whose color vaguely reminds him of Campbell’s tomato soup. Before the thought can make him hungry, the ship is alighting on the red, rocky surface and Rick is shoving a tiny, green pill in his palm.

"H-here, Morty, s-swallow this," his grandfather whispers to him, gulping down a pill himself. "I-it’s so you can, can b-breathe in this atmosphere for more than, more than t-two minutes Morty. Hexiblurm-7 is very, very different f-from Earth, th-they’ve got, got about s-seven times as m-much nitrogen in th-the air. G-gotta take a, a s-special pill if you wanna s-survive, Morty."

Morty nods and swallows the pill dutifully, not feeling especially scared or annoyed at the idea that Rick has dragged him out of his bed at three in the morning to take him to a planet with an atmosphere that could potentially suffocate him. If anything, he’s still feeling a little sleepy, not exactly taking in the fact that he’s on an alien planet right now with his crazy, brilliant scientist of a grandfather. Part of him is still half-wondering if he’s not dreaming right now, but the arid, desert-like landscape around him looks so real and the ground feels solid under his feet.

"W-we gotta, gotta be quiet now, M-Morty," Rick whispers as they slowly get out of the spaceship. "N-not uuurrrp, not a lotta p-people here, Morty, th-this planet hasn’t been i-inhabited in a while but the G-Gromflamites still, still use it as s-storage space once in a w-while, s-somewhere to hide th-their best stuff, M-Morty. P-probably got alarms a-all over the place, w-we gotta, gotta be careful now."

"A-alarms ?" Morty echoes, a spark of worry coursing through him. "Oh g-geez Rick, h-how dangerous is th-this gonna be exactly ?"

"Don’t worry about it, M-Morty," Rick tells him reassuringly. "H-here, take th-this if y-you’re scared," he adds, shoving something into Morty’s hands. It looks more or less like a gun, only smaller yet somehow heavier than what he imagines an actual gun would feel like ; it’s made of a sleek, pale material that’s cool to the touch, and covered with all sorts of confusing buttons. Rick is holding an identical gun in his hand, evidently knowing how to use it himself.

"R-Rick, what is, what is th-this ?" Morty asks in a squeak. "K-keep it down, M-Morty," Rick whispers furiously at him. "We gotta, gotta be d-discreet here. I-it’s a laser g-gun, Morty ; I’m just, j-just giving it to y-you as a measure of p-precaution. N-now keep quiet, M-Morty, we’re g-getting closer."

Rick is making his way to an old, three-storied building that looks a bit like an abandoned laboratory. Morty shuffles his feet behind the old scientist, resisting the urge to start gnawing at his lower lip ; he’s feeling less and less certain about this. The thought that he could be sleeping right now in his bed, warm and cozy and safe, makes him huff out a sigh.

The main door is locked, obviously ; the scientist wastes no time trying to open the lock and shoots it once with his laser gun, tiptoes inside the building and gestures for Morty to follow him. They make their way through a long, empty hallway, being careful to make their steps as light and soft as possible.

Morty follows closely behind his grandfather. He has no idea where they’re going, but fortunately Rick seems to have a very clear idea of their surroundings. He takes them through a second winding hallway, then a third and a fourth one that look exactly the same, and when Morty has completely lost any sense of where they are, Rick stops in front of a heavy-looking metal door.

"H-hallelujah, b-bitches!" he shouts in a whisper, punching the air in triumph. "Th-there we are, M-Morty ; w-we’re only two s-steps away from th-the treasure n-now!"

"Th-that’s great, R-Rick," Morty smiles despite his nervousness, unable to stay unfazed in front of Rick’s contagious enthusiasm. "S-so that’s w-where they keep the, the Glufax crystal, h-huh ?"

"Sh-should be," Rick says, pointing his gun at the metal lock, softly muttering "open s-sesame, baby," under his breath.

There’s a tiny spark of light and when Rick next pushes his hand against the metal door, it creaks open without resistance. They make their way into the small, darkly-lit room. Morty stands by the hallway, ready to warn Rick of anyone coming. Meanwhile the old man rummages through drawers and closets and classified materials enclosed in what look like stainless steel cannisters.

"G-got it!" he finally exclaims victoriously, holding up a small, clear jar filled with a powdery, shiny green substance. "I f-found the G-Glufax crystal, M-Morty! F-fuck yeah, bitches!"

"R-Rick, I think s-someone’s coming!" Morty says in a voice that’s almost a whimper, hands squeezed tight around the laser gun. He hears heavy footsteps in the dark hallway, far away for now but getting closer fast. Rick’s face hardens, one hand discreetly sliding the precious jar inside his lab coat, the other raising his laser gun.

"F-fuck, forgot about that," he curses. "O-okay, Morty, uurrrp, m-make way for m-me, grandpa’s gonna t-take care of this."

Morty gratefully scoots back into the room as Rick, moving incredibly fast for a man hi sage, jumps out in front of him and shoots thrice without warning. There’s a big, sickening thud from the other end of a hallway, followed by a high-pitched alarm ringing through the entire building.

"Uuurrrp, t-time to haul ass, M-Morty!" Rick bellows, grabbing his arm and suddenly they’re galloping through the empty hallways at breakneck speed, alarm still hollering in their ears.

When they get out of the building, Morty can already make out hundreds of tiny bright lights in the distance, too big to be stars.

"W-what are those, R-Rick ?" Morty pants as he runs, eyes trained worriedly on the night sky.

"They’re G-Gromflamite s-ships, M-Morty," Rick answers, frowning at them. "Th-these f-fuckers heard t-the distress c-call, they’re gonna, they’re g-gonna come after us, Morty, w-we gotta be quick!”

Morty’s heart is racing and he feels like he’s going to be sick but he keeps running as fast as he can, expecting the enemy ships to start shooting lasers at the two of them any second. His fingers curl uselessly around the handle of his gun, his chest tight with anxiety as he remembers that he doesn’t even know how to shoot it.

Suddenly there’s the sound of a door slamming open behind them; Morty turns his head back to see a hulking, repulsive insect-like creature limping out of the building, holding what looks like a huge machine gun in its arms and pointing it straight at his grandfather’s back.

Morty reacts in a split second; before he’s even realized it, he’s jumped in front of Rick, shielding him from the alien.

“Look out, R-Rick!" he cries out, but before Rick even has time to turn around Morty’s already shooting, pressing half a dozen buttons haphazardly and sending a deadly beam right between the creature’s antennae. This time the Gromflamite goes down without making so much as a grunt, bright green blood flowing out of him and pooling under his head. For a second Morty is frozen, staring at the body in front of him with wide, unblinking eyes. It might have been a gross insect monster who clearly wanted to kill them, but it was still the first living creature he’d ever killed with his own hands, and he feels like he needs a few seconds to let that fully sink in.

Then Rick is pulling insistently at his arm again (something he’s starting to get sued to) and yelling at him to "d-don’t just s-stand there, Morty, r-run!" So he starts running, not stopping or looking back until they’re safely inside the spaceship.

Not quite, though; as Rick buckles his seatbelt and steps on the gas pedal, they find themselves surrounded by about six other, much bigger looking ships. "S-shit, I f-fucking knew th-this was gonna happen," Rick mutters under his breath before he slams his fist down on a big red button and all the cannons protruding from the ship turn to face multiple directions at once.

Then he’s firing at the Gromflamites, blasting fiery green laser beams into space, every bit as merciless as them; the battle lights up the sky like fireworks. Morty is somewhat frozen in his seat, fingers digging into his armrests but he doesn't feel scared. There's a sense of urgency and tension in the pit of his belly, firing up his nerves, but it's not fear: he's not sure what to call it. His eyes stay glued on his grandfather's face: Rick's eyes are narrowed in concentration, hands flying across the dashboard to fire at their enemies and keep them from getting blown to bits. His body is tense, every muscle taut as if ready to pounce, teeth clenched and lips curled into a fierce snarl. Morty is in complete awe; he can't believe he ever thought to describe Rick as gangly, or frail. The pale blue hair fading to white, the bony, hunched shoulders, the cracking joints and the ashen, wrinkly face don't mean shit anymore. Morty isn't looking at just any average sixty-year old man, he's looking at a _fucking warrior_. 

Rick doesn’t let up for a second, bringing down one, then two enemy ships ; one of the Gromflamite ships comes a little too close to hitting their ship, so Morty instinctively reaches for the steering wheel and brutally swerves, just in time to dodge it. He doesn’t miss the surprised –admiring ?—glance Rick shoots his way, before turning his attention back to the battlefield. There’s an opening in front of them, a little bit to the left, right between two Gromflamite ships ; without so much as a warning word, Rick steps on the gas pedal, the ship speeding up dramatically as they manage to just barely squeeze into the empty space. The scientist takes back control of the steering wheel as Morty grips his seat with both hands, neck twisting to look back at the four remaining ships still firing shots at them. But their ship’s small size also allows them to be much faster, and pretty soon the Gromflamites lose track of them, leaving them to float peacefully among the stars.

"G-geez, Rick, th-that was, that was r-really close," Morty says, heart still beating erratically in his chest. He can’t remember the last time he felt such a powerful rush of adrenaline.

Rick seems to have gotten over the adventure faster, already reaching into his pocket for his flask. "I-I’ve seen worse ; th-these Gromflamites, they’re uuurrrp, th-they’re really m-motherfuckers, Morty, I-I’ll tell you th-that. I g-got a, got a loooonng h-history with them. B-been trailing m-me for y-years."

"W-what for ?"

"Ehh, l-lil’bit of everything. M-mostly stealing s-stuff from them and, and s-selling it on th-the black m-market for th-thrice the money. S-some diplomatic incidents too, m-might have, l-like, blown some of em up a-accidentally or s-something. L-long story sh-short, Morty, your g-grandpa doesn’t like Gromflamites, a-and they sure as hell d-don’t like him."

Rick ends his tirade with a long gulp of whisky, not looking the least bit ashamed or embarrassed that he’d just boasted about committing several crimes to his underage grandson. Never mind the fact that he had just taken said grandson on a trip in space to steal illegal material from bloodthirsty insect aliens. He just looks completely nonchalant, like he doesn’t give a fuck about anything –or rather like he gives so many fucks about whatever weird stuff is going on inside his own brilliant mind that he just can’t be bothered with the rest of the universe. And Morty supposes that he should be outraged, should be downright furious and perhaps even scared out of his mind to be sitting right next to a man like him right now, but he’s not any of these things. Maybe it’s the stress or the adrenaline or just the overwhelming relief that he just went through a space battle with aliens and _holy shit he’s still alive_ , but he feels laughter bubble up inside his throat and the next words spill out of his mouth completely unbidden :

"Ha… Haha… You’re awesome, R-Rick."

He sees Rick’s eyes widen from his peripheral vision and instantly wonders if he did something wrong. But Rick doesn’t look mad, just looks mildly taken aback for a while, before the look of shock once again melts into his trademark, shit-eating grin.

"H-hell yeah I’m awesome! » he cheers, raising his flask in celebration. « D-don’t need you to t-tell me that, M-Morty ; I just shot down th-three Gromflamite ships and took off with a j-jarful of Glufax p-powder! Rick-fuckin’-Sanchez, bitches!”

They both laugh at that, bent over in two and holding their stomachs although there’s really nothing all that funny about the situation ; maybe they’re both just feeling crazy and happy and all warm and glowing inside, like they know this is the start of something great but just can’t quite put their finger on it yet.

Then Rick looks over at him, and his eyes are filled with a strange emotion –fondness, maybe ? Morty wonders. The old man reaches over and ruffles his hair once, the feeling sending little tingles through Morty’s scalp.

"Y-you know, I couldn’t have, couldn’t have d-done it without you th-there, Morty. You h-helped me out a bunch, b-blowing up that Gromflamite guard ; g-got steady hands. Y-you’re a natural at this."

Morty can’t help the smile that stretches across his face then ; he knows his eyes are sparkling and he actually feels the blush spreading on his cheeks but he couldn’t care less about the fact that he probably looks like an idiot, because Rick just told him he’s awesome, and he feels pretty goddamn great right now.

They make their way back to their world, back to their planet and back to their house before anyone wakes up, laughing and cracking stupid jokes all the while. Morty half notices just how much Rick touches him during the trip back –ruffling his hair, clapping him on the back, squeezing his shoulder, even occasionnally letting their hands brush together –but it doesn’t really bother him.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter might be a bit shorter than the first two, but I'm actually pretty proud of it (or at least as proud as one can be for writing romantic fiction about a teenager and his grandfather). 
> 
> Morty makes his move and enjoys being a smart-ass; Rick low-key freaks out at first but lets it happen because he's been holding back for too long.

Morty is worried.

Rick has been acting strange around him for the past few weeks : avoiding his eyes, being jittery and nervous around him and, as the most recent development, avoiding his presence altogether. He’s trying to be subtle about it, but Morty isn’t fooled : every morning when he gets up, Rick is still "sleeping" in his room; there’s no answer when he knocks at his door, only the sound of very loud, very fake snoring. Rick only comes to the table for breakfast just as Morty is leaving for school –and he knows it’s done solely for the purpose of avoiding contact with him, because there’s nothing that Rick hates more than soggy, room temperature pancakes.

When Morty comes home, Rick is always off-planet in some dimension or other for "science."

And this only makes the teenager twice as worried, because he knows he can’t protect Rick when he goes off to some unknown planet by himself. His grandfather's awe-inspiring intelligence paired with his consistently reckless behaviour make him the biggest trouble magnet in the galaxy, and though he never explicitly said so, Morty knows that him being there increases Rick's chances of survival. Up until three weeks ago, he'd been accompanying the scientist on every one of his errands; he's gotten pretty talented at getting them out of risky situations, if he can say so himself. He never thought he'd be able to write down "blowing aliens' brains out with an ultra-advanced blaster gun" on his list of personal skills, but life is full of surprises.

Morty takes pride in this newfound talent: he'd never been much good at anything else other than taxidermy before, but having Rick in his life has opened his brain to all kinds of different disciplines he'd never even fathomed before -they sure as hell never taught him anything about intergalactic weaponry at school. He's discovering new worlds, new possibilities without and within himself, learning more in the last months than he has in fifteen years, and it's all thanks to Rick. 

He's been so happy, he hadn't even stopped to think that perhaps his grandfather didn't feel the same way.

He'd imagined that Rick was having fun with him -maybe the old man had only been putting up with him for his mother's sake, just barely tolerating the presence of an annoying teenage brat clinging to him day in, day out.

Maybe he's finally had enough of him. 

Thoughts like that make Morty's eyes prickle and his stomach churn as if it's trying to eat itself, so he tries not to dwell on them. Instead, he uses his free time -time that's no longer spent trailing after Rick- to care for his collection of animals. He'd been neglecting his little sparrows and he's glad to be able to return to his favourite hobby, or at least that's what he tells himself. The smell of alum and straw is familiar and reassuring, but Morty hasn't been feeling the same spark, the old mixture of feverish enthusiasm and steady concentration that used to make this so fun. The process of tanning and mounting the animal skins has become pointless, almost tedious. And Morty only has to glance at his "special" shelf -the one where he keeps all the (freshly taxidermied) creatures he'd picked up on his travels with Rick- to feel his chest tighten before the unpleasant thoughts rush over him again, threatening to swallow him up in a sea of self-doubt and self-loathing. 

He doesn’t know what he’s done to upset Rick, but he has an inkling that it has something to do with the way Rick has been looking at him lately.

Morty isn’t blind: he’s seen the way the scientist’s eyes have been lingering on him, resting on him for a second too long for it to be normal and flitting away when he sees Morty's questioning gaze. He's seen how Rick’s pale blue irises seem to get one or two shades darker when they’re looking at him. He’s also noticed how awkward Rick has been about touching him; hugs and hair ruffles, affectionate pats and squeezes on the shoulders have always been a normal part of their relationship, but lately Rick’s been more hesitant with them. His hugs are rarer and shorter, and the old man always pulls away first, letting go after a few seconds as if he’d been burnt. Morty misses the physical contact, craves for it; he's gone in for a hug several times now, only to be firmly rebuked by Rick’s arm and receive a half-hearted pat on the back instead.

He wonders if Rick feels uncomfortable around him.

He wonders if Rick finally figured out why Morty wants to hang out with him so often, why he gets so sour whenever he hears his grandfather talk about his wild sexcapades with freaky aliens, why he’s so worried about Rick when he’s not at his side.

He wonders if Rick knows that he’s the one that’s been keeping Morty up at night, hair matted with sweat and back arching painfully off the mattress, fingers grabbing desperately at sheets and empty air.

It’s not like Morty can control it –it’s not like he ever tried to, really. He’d known what this was pretty much since day one. The moment he laid eyes on Rick for the first time, he knew in his heart of hearts that the rest of his life would be spent protecting and cherishing him. There was really no place for doubt in his mind, and it didn’t even occur to him how wrong these feelings could seem to other people –or even to Rick himself. As far as he was concerned, Rick was the first and only person he would ever care about.

So when he sneaks out of school one afternoon, ditching his last two classes of the day to make his way back home hours earlier than usual, he doesn’t feel like he’s doing anything wrong.

When he quietly pushes open the door to the garage and feels his breath catch in his throat at the sight of Rick half asleep at his desk, face in one hand and bottle of whisky in the other, well, there isn’t anything wrong with that either.

He takes a few steps towards Rick, cautiously. The old man’s light snoring halts suddenly, and he shrugs himself awake, eyes sleepy and bleary with alcohol. When he sees Morty, standing less than a meter away from him, his whole body jolts on his chair.

"F-fuck, M-Morty, you scared m-me, you little s-shit," he curses, immediately turning back to his desk and away from Morty’s face. "W-what time is it ? I m-must’ve d-dozed off…"

It’s clear how nervous Rick is, from the way he’s stuttering more than usual to how he starts rummaging frantically through the junk on his desk, as if he’s looking for something when Morty knows he’s not. He’d be annoyed at it, if he didn’t find it so… cute.

"It’s 3 : 20," Morty replies evenly, slightly amused at the way Rick’s eyebrows shoot up in surprise.

"Th-three uuurrrp, three t-twenty ?" Rick exclaims. "A-aren’t you supposed to b-be in school right now ?"

Morty shrugs. "I only h-had two classes left. D-didn’t feel like going."

There's a thick, buzzing tension in the air; Morty feels it as strongly as if there was an actual force field between the two of them, separating him from his grandfather. To be honest, he's glad: as pathetic as it sounds, this is the longest conversation he's had with Rick in weeks, and it's enough to make his heart beat a little faster. It's not nearly enough, however, to satisfy his aching thirst for _more_ , more contact, more attention, more affection. The past weeks of silence and avoidance have built up a horrible sense of lack that sits heavily on his gut like a cold lead dumbbell; simultaneously, it also feels like there's an empty, gaping hole in his insides. It's nothing less than maddening, and Morty needs it to stop now. This has gone on long enough. No matter what happened, no matter what he did to upset the other man, he needs Rick back _now_. 

The scientist is not looking at him, hands shakily moving from one thing to another and making his desk even messier than it was before. He shakes his head as if in disapproval, struggling to find something to say. "Y-you shouldn’t, shouldn’t ditch school, Morty. G-gotta, gotta focus on l-learning, Morty, it’s imp-uuurrrp, it’s important…"

Morty furrows his eyebrows, impatient. Now it's obvious that Rick is just saying words for the sake of saying words. This is unusually out of character, even taking into account how weird Rick has been lately. Lecturing him about school, really ?

The scientist seems to realize a fraction of a second too late just how unbelievable he sounded. Morty sees his skinny shoulders tense up from behind, and even though he can’t see the old man’s face, he knows Rick’s gritting his teeth.

"What’s wrong, R-Rick ?" he asks, as straightforward as he can, though he knows Rick’s still avoiding looking at him.

"Wh-uuurrrgghh, what do you m-mean, M-Morty ?"

"You know what I mean," Morty insists, walking up to Rick’s desk chair and wheeling him around to face him, the old man too paralyzed by anxiety and alcohol to stop him.

"D-don’t pretend you don’t. Y-you’ve been avoiding m-me for the p-past two w-weeks. Y-you don’t talk to m-me, y-you don’t touch me." At that, Rick lowers his eyes and Morty could swear he saw the faintest trace of a blush spread across his face. "You b-barely even l-look at me. What’s going on, R-Rick ?"

Rick doesn’t say anything for a long moment, just looks at him with those unreadable blue eyes. Then he lets out a defeated sigh and slouches forward in his chair.

"M-Morty, you don’t understand… It’s b-better this w-way."

"Which way, R-Rick ?"

"I-if we d-don’t... talk as much. If we d-don’t, don’t hang around each other as much."

Morty feels like his whole stomach has filled up with lead. It’s rising up in his esophagus like bile; he swallows it down once, thickly, dizzy with hurt.

"W-why ?" he croaks, hating how his voice sounds full of tears.

Rick’s face softens, eyes full of sorrow; his hand twitches as if to reach for Morty before stilling itself and retracting to his own knee, as unmoving as a dead spider.

"Oh, Morty," he says almost tenderly. "D-don’t be sad ; it, it’s for the b-best, M-Morty. Y-you’re just a kid. It would be wrong for me t-to… To…"

"To w-what, Rick ?" Morty asks, a spark of hope suddenly lighting up inside him. Rick’s current expression is one he has often seen on the old scientist’s face these last few days: one of shame, guilt, and something else too.

His gaze meets Morty’s for a split second and that’s all it takes: his eyes rivet themselves to the boy’s, large and dark and full of desire, and suddenly just as easily readable as a picture book for pre-schoolers –to Morty at least.

He feels the spark of hope grow within him, become as large and bright as a forest fire. He knows that now is his moment; he can’t miss this opportunity.

"T-to take you on adventures," Rick finishes lamely. "P-putting you through, through all this dangerous shit, M-Morty, it’s just n-not right. I c-can’t keep risking your life like that. I, I don’t want to do that anymore."

"W-what about what I want ?"

Morty takes two more steps forward, reaching his hands to let them rest on Rick’s forearms. The skin is cold to the touch but he warms it up instantly; Rick’s arm hair stands straight up like porcupine needles, and the shiver that passes through his body courses through Morty too, jolting their bodies like electricity.

The scientist blushes again and practically squirms in his chair as Morty gets ever closer, leaning over him in a way that’s both intimidating and incredibly intimate. It feels like they’re dancing on fire, teethering on the edge of innocence and danger. Morty’s playing the game of ambiguity: technically speaking, the situation they're in is still considered completely and totally appropriate interaction between a man and his grandson, so there's no reason to panic, is there? He sees these exact thoughts run through Rick's brain, clear as a goldfish swimming in a glass bowl. 

They stay like this for a while, neither of them moving closer or pulling away. Morty’s hands make their way further down the old man’s arms, trace his wrists delicately until they reach his hands. Rick is breathing quicker now, chest rising and falling faster, his eyes bright and focused on Morty.

The scientist is even more reactive than Morty had fantasized about, and he already knows he won the game. That doesn’t mean he needs to put a stop to it: he takes his time, has his fun.

Every time Rick looks like he’s about to be pushed over the edge, blush getting deeper and legs twitching under his seat, Morty puts a damper on things, makes the situation seem innocent.

Every time Rick seems to have calmed down, he switches it up again by doing something _absolutely_ unambiguous -like touching his lips to Rick’s hands and slowly sliding the scientist's fingers into his mouth, letting his tongue linger on the skin and his teeth lightly drag against the knuckles.

Rick’s breathing speeds up; the man is almost panting under Morty’s touch and he feels an exciting rush of pride to be able to have such an effect on a man much older than him, who’d probably had unthinkable experiences with dozens of creatures Morty couldn’t even begin to imagine.

"Y-you… You…" Rick stutters falteringly, and Morty takes his fingers out of his mouth, looking pointedly at him with wide eyes. Rick lets out a small sound of frustration at himself. "Y-you’re just a kid, Morty. You d-don’t know what you want," he finally chokes out.

"And is this," Morty presses a light kiss to the inside of the man's wrist, "w-what you want, then?" he asks, sounding innocent enough while resisting the urge to smirk. 

Rick suddenly seems to snap out of the trance he was in and comes to his senses, slapping Morty’s hand away in an attempt to regain control of the situation. He grabs his grandson by the collar, face hardened into a menacing scowl that would be intimidating it if weren’t for the pink blush still dusting his cheeks.

"I just told you," he growls, and Morty can’t help but feel heat pool in his lower abdomen. What he wouldn't give to hear the same growl in a different setting, with the older man towering over him as he gets on his knees, hands grabbing his hair roughly. "I don’t w-want to take y-you on adventures anymore, M-Morty."

Morty doesn’t move, doesn’t lose his countenance. If anything, he feels slightly smug right now; he knows that if he pushes just a little bit harder, Rick will break.

"O-okay," he says in a deceptively soft voice, eyes going wide and pleading in a way he knows Rick can’t resist. "S-say that again, a-and I’ll believe you, R-Rick."

The blue-haired scientist narrows his eyes at him, grip tightening on his collar. "Th-this ain’t s-some crappy soap opera, y-you piece of shit."

"F-fine," Morty retorts. "J-just say it once m-more, a-and I’ll believe you, Rick."

Rick’s face scrunches into an even deeper scowl for a second, before crumpling completely. The old man loosens his grip on Morty’s collar, and Morty knows he’s given up. In the time Morty’s known his grandfather, he’s never seen him look so lost, so unsure: for the first time, the boy feels a slight twinge of guilt for putting him through this. He knows it's for the best, since it means that the walls between them are finally tumbling down, but he never wants to see Rick like this if he can help it: it’s a look he wants to wipe off his face, preferably by kissing him so hard he forgets his own name. 

Rick’s eyebrows furrow together again and he hardens his gaze, one last ditch attempt at keeping up this façade.

"I don’t want to t-take you on adventures anymore, M-Morty."

The sentence falls flat like an erupted party balloon. Every syllable sounds fake, wrong, the minimal amount of stuttering making it obvious how much Rick struggled to get the words out.

Morty can’t help but smile a small, knowing, triumphant smile. He can’t even pretend to believe that Rick is being honest right now, not when he looks as if the words coming out of his mouth are physically paining him.

Slowly, very slowly, Morty’s hands make their way to his collar, where Rick’s fingers are still loosely entwined in the fabric of his shirt. One by one, tenderly, he pries the long fingers off and rests them on the arm rests at either side of Rick’s chair.

Then, savoring the way Rick’s eyes widen and his mouth drops slightly open in surprise, he climbs on top of the old man so that he’s sitting in his lap, his knees spread out comfortably around Rick’s waist. His arms wrap themselves naturally around the scientist’s neck, hands stroking his nape and fingers inching towards the wild, blue hair.

Morty goes slow, takes every step one at a time: there’s no rush now that he knows the battle is won. Rick has broken; he can take his sweet time claiming his trophy.

He presses his entire upper body flush against Rick’s, sitting his weight on his grandfather’s lap and laying his forehead against his collarbone, and lets out a long, breathy sigh of pure satisfaction. The sound is gentle and soft, but also unmistakeably erotic, with the way his fingers are now grabbing at Rick’s hair and the way his lips are ghosting over his skin.

"I don’t believe you," he whispers softly, letting his eyes flutter shut.

He can feel Rick’s heart hammering away like a battle drum in his chest, so close it's like he’s hearing his own heartbeat pounding in his ear. Rick’s not moving yet, body still tense and nervous as if he doesn’t dare move, doesn’t dare touch.

_Please_ , Morty begs him wordlessly, thumbs caressing the spot behind Rick's ears. _Stop holding back, it's over now. It was over a long time ago._

To an extremely oblivious onlooker who also happened to be deep in denial (*cough* Jerry *cough*), this embrace could seem like a normal and platonic moment of affection between a boy and his grandfather; but the way Morty is fully clinging to Rick, his lips parted and back oh-so-slightly arched, the way his thighs are snugly fitted against Rick’s hips make it completely and absolutely _not_ normal. As Morty shifts his weight on the scientist’s lap, he feels Rick’s hardness rubbing against him and lets out a heated little moan; Rick’s breath catches in his throat and his arms close possessively around Morty’s body, hands running up and down his back like he wants to touch every inch of skin he can find.

"Y-you said you’d believe me."

"I lied."

"You little shit."


	4. Chapter 4

_"F-fuuck_ , Morty, you’re gonna be the death of me…"

"Ah… Ahnn…. R-Rick…"

"S-so tight, M-Morty, shit, you feel fucking amazing…"

"Rick… Please, Rick, I… I n-need you…"

Morty lets out a sigh of relief as Rick’s hand snakes down his belly and finally, finally touches him the way he wants, the way he _needs_ to be touched by the older man. Rick is panting and grunting like a wild animal behind him, kissing and biting along the side of his neck, catching the occasional drops of sweat with the tip of his tongue; he’s thrusting deep and fast inside of Morty, hand stroking him at the same rhythm. His other hand is on Morty’s chest, fingers dipping into supple flesh, nails drawing blood but Morty doesn’t care, doesn’t mind the pain, thrives on it even; he only wishes Rick would dig his nails deeper into his body, all the way to his bones and sinews.

"Y-you have no idea h-how hot you look right now, Morty," Rick mutters against his skin, covering the side of his face with feverish kisses. "W-wish you could s-see yourself right now, babe; cock twitching in my hand, t-taking me in so good."

Morty feels like he’s on fire; he knows he’s not going to last much longer, not if Rick keeps feeding him such sweet, sinful words, not if he keeps thumbing so teasingly at the slit of his cock, not if he keeps hitting that one spot inside of him that just feels so _goddamn perfect_ —

"Shit," Rick groans, hips now thrusting erratically against Morty. "G-gonna come inside you, M-Morty… "

Morty twists his body around, turns his face to gaze at Rick’s expression, wanting to etch every single detail of this moment into his memory; Rick is gritting his teeth, face red from the effort of fucking him, eyes tightly shut in ecstasy. Morty strokes his cheek with one hand, turning the old man’s face closer to his so he can mouth at the stubble on his chin. Rick kisses him hard on the lips, shoving his tongue in his mouth, licking at his teeth and Morty feels like he’s being utterly devoured from the inside out.

"C-come inside me, Rick," he moans breathlessly, feeling like Rick is fucking the very air out of his lungs, every thrust making him hotter and the coil inside his abdomen tighter. "Fill me up, Rick, I need it, p-please."

He’s keening against Rick now, pushing his ass further on the other man’s cock, meeting him thrust for thrust. Rick grabs a hold of his hair, holding him in place and plants his teeth so deep in his shoulder that Morty cries out.

"S-such a dirty little slut for me, M-Morty," Rick hisses in his ear, pushing him over the edge.

Morty comes with a long, drawn-out moan that rips through his body; Rick lets out a loud grunt as he releases deep inside of Morty, giving a few last thrusts before stilling and pulling out.

Morty collapses fully on the mattress, feeling it dip under the combined weight of Rick and him. He can feel his own stickiness starting to dry under his belly, and the thought of having to clean up their mess makes him cringe; he’s far too comfortable right now to think about getting up. Rick seems to be in a similar state, laying exhausted next to him, an arm draped tenderly across his shoulders. His breathing is getting deeper and heavier, like he’s about to fall asleep any second now. "Th-that was amazing, R-Rick," Morty mumbles tiredly, feeling warm and fuzzy like a cat.

Rick chuckles affectionately, tightening his hold on him. "I rocked y-your world, eh babe ?"

"A-as always," Morty replies cheekily.

"H-heh," Rick chuckles lightly, glancing over Morty's shoulder at the shelves on the bedroom wall. "S-sure gave t-these little buddies a show, huh? H-hope we didn't traumatise t-them or anything." 

Morty follows his gaze and lets out a little giggle at Rick's joke: it's not the first time they do it in the teenager's room, right in front of his collection of taxidermied animals. They can't usually afford the luxury of a bed, more often settling for a quickie in the garage when they know no one else has any reason to go peek in there. But when they do get to make love on an actual bed, in Morty's room -Rick's camp bed is way too narrow to fit the both of them comfortably- they cherish it. 

The stuffed sparrows stare right back at them. They're no different than usual, but the moonlight reflecting off of them gives their eyes a more lively, shocked expression, and the result is pretty comical. 

"P-Poor things, t-they've seen way too much," Rick says, grinning from ear to ear. "We r-really put on a show for 'em. H-how many years of t-therapy d'you reckon they'll need after t-this?" 

"They'll live," Morty hums absentmindedly, still too absorbed in his afterglow and the warmth of Rick's body next to his. He reaches over and carefully nudges his precious squirrel, sitting on its glorious perching stop above the birds. "W-What about him?" 

Rick shrugs and dips his nose into the teenager's chestnut curls. "Hmmm, nah," he decides, sparing a sideways glance at the furry animal. "L-little guy looks old as h-hell, he's probably s-seen worse. P-probably had h-his own wild days with t-tons of l-lady rodents." 

This gives Morty another fit of giggles; he puts his hand to his mouth, unable to stifle the laughter bubbling up in his chest. Rick joins in with his horsy guffaws, and his long arms come up around the boy's waist to hug him closer: Morty sighs in contentment, despite the little twinge of guilt he feels; it's been a long time since he's paid any attention to his collection. He's just been so engrossed in Rick- going on adventures with him, helping him with his experiments, making out with him every chance he gets.

"W-Whatever you say, Rick," he laughs, snuggling into the old man's chest. Then his voice becomes lower, more serious. "I missed you," he says softly.

Rick’s voice changes too, takes that gentle tone that he only ever has when talking to Morty. "I-I know, baby, I know. It’s b-been hard for me too. But we can’t let your parents get suspicious."

Morty doesn’t say anything. He’d barely seen Rick the past week, let alone touched him or done anything sexual; they’d both been completely starved. Beth had had a little talk with her father, telling him about how Morty only ever had time to hang out with him and how she didn’t think this kind of behavior was normal for a child his age. "I’m glad you two get along so well, dad…But Morty’s turning fifteen soon, and he doesn’t have a friend his age," she’d said, a worried look on her pretty face. “I know he’s always been a quiet kid, but I just think it’d be good for him to get out more, get to know other people… Maybe be more like a normal teenager."

So far it didn’t sound like she had caught wind of what was really going on, but Rick was paranoid about these kinds of things. So he’d set a rule for the past week: no talking to each other for more than a couple minutes when not with other members of the family, no staying in the house alone with each other, no hugs or physical contact in front of the family, and definitely no sex. He’d even banned cuddling, something that Morty had grown especially fond of and found himself missing more than anything else.

But he knew how Rick was when he made up his mind about something, and trying to reason with him would have been useless. Tonight had marked the end of their longest dry spell yet; and they’d still had to make up a story about Morty being sick and Rick having to stay behind to look after him, while the rest of the family were off on some vacation or other.

Sometimes, Morty couldn’t help but get annoyed at how they always had to sneak around and walk on eggshells around the rest of the family, always hiding and lying and making out behind closed doors. He had confessed to Rick three months ago, and these last three months had been the happiest time of his life; in fact, he’d been so happy it had made him question whether or not he ever even understood the concept of happiness before Rick came into his life. He just wished they didn’t need to hide their happiness: he was tired of Rick begging him to be quiet when they had sex, of acting colder and more distant when his parents or sister were there, of having to steal secret glances and kisses in between casual conversations and daily house chores. He wondered at the possibility of a life where he could wake up in Rick’s arms in the morning, and fall asleep there at night; a life where he wouldn’t have to muffle his voice when Rick made love to him, where he could shout his love for Rick from the rooftops.

"M-missed you so much, baby," Rick still mutters sleepily in his ear. "I-I don’t ever wanna go so long without h-holding you again." Morty hums in agreement, letting himself be swallowed up entirely by the feeling of contentment spreading through every inch of his body. "I love you, Rick," he says half-consciously, ready for a well-earned nap. "I-I love you too, M-Morty," Rick replies, planting a kiss on his temple, tenderly swiping away a few sweaty locks of hair.

Before they can fall asleep, there’s the distinct sound of the front door opening downstairs. Morty’s ears prick up instantly, but he’s too exhausted to actually get out of the bed. Rick starts to get up next to him, resting his weight on his elbows, head tilted to listen better: they’re still not entirely sure if the noise wasn’t their imagination. Suddenly there’s the sound of a door slamming shut, and a veritable explosion of hushed voices erupts from the living room.

"I told you to be quiet, Jerry! Morty’s probably asleep right now!”

“Yeah, well I thought your father would at least be up, but I guess it was too optimistic of me to hope he wouldn’t already be passed out drunk in the garage.”

“Oh my god, Jerry, I do not have the patience to deal with you right now,” Beth’s voice hisses exasperatedly. “Let’s just do what we came here for and get back on the road, they won’t hold our reservation if we’re late!”

“Well excuse me”, they hear Jerry whine in that irritating voice of his. “I wasn’t the one who remembered they forgot to give Morty his medicine when we were already halfway to the resort, was I?”

Morty hears his mother’s long suffering sigh, a sound he’s become very well acquainted with throughout years of hearing his parents argue. “Let’s just get this over with”, Beth whispers.

Then there are steps walking up towards the second floor, and that is definitely _not_ their imagination. Rick jolts up and starts frantically pulling at the sheets, trying to hide their nakedness; Morty is looking around and trying to find his clothes in the dark, although it’s becoming clearer by the second that they’re not going to get dressed in time.

“Shit shit shit shit”, he can hear Rick cursing under his breath next to him.

They’re both awkwardly paralyzed as they hear the footsteps get closer and closer to them, until the shiny doorknob twists and turns and suddenly Beth and Jerry are in the room.

During the months they’ve been sneaking around, Morty has had plenty of time to imagine how things would go down if his family ever discovered their secret. He’s had plenty of fantasies, each one worse than the last, but this real life catastrophe really takes the cake. Morty feels rigid with fear as his parents take in the scene before them, Rick naked from the waist up with his privates covered by a sheet, Morty tucked in bed next to him, boxers dangling from his ankle, the rest of their clothes scattered all over the floor.

He watches his parents’ expressions morph from shock, to confusion, to denial, to downright horror and disgust.

“RICK!” Jerry shouts instantly, face twisted in fury.

“Dad? Morty? Oh my god, what is happening here?!” Beth screeches, looking on the verge of a mental breakdown.

“Get away from our son this second, you creep!”

Morty is frozen; he has no idea what to do. Fortunately, Rick always has a solution. Moving faster than Morty has ever seen him move when they were running away from bloodthirsty aliens, the scientist jumps out of bed –sheet still wrapped around his waist—plunges his hand in Morty’s drawers, retrieves an object that looks similar to a laser gun and shoots the couple with it. They instantly collapse on the ground, unconscious.

Morty finally feels like he can breathe again. He hugs the sheets close to his chest, suddenly feeling dizzy and faint. “W-what happened to them?” he asks in a trembling voice, staring at his parents’ unconscious bodies.

“I shot them with an amnesia g-gun, Morty”, Rick answers grimly, pacing the room. “Th-they’ll be fine, Morty, they’ll be up in a f-few hours. But we don’t have much time. Fuck, fuck, what do we do?!” Rick looks on the verge of hysteria, pulling wildly at his spiky blue hair, cursing repeatedly through gritted teeth. Morty doesn’t think he’s ever seen him so panicked.

He wonders if he should be panicking too. For some reason, the exact opposite of that is happening: after the initial horror of his parents walking in on him sharing a post coital cuddle with his grandfather, he feels a great wave of calm invade his whole being. He doesn’t feel the least bit afraid; he has an idea.

He looks up at Rick, eyes steady and filled with a calm determination. “We could run away”, he suggests simply, almost casually, as if it weren’t a life changing decision.

Rick stops pacing and looks back at him, face unreadable in the obscurity. “Are you serious?” he asks once, his voice low.

Morty nods. “Y-yeah, I am”, he goes on. “Th-think about it, Rick. We have to find a solution quick, before th-they wake up. And we’d be free. We could do whatever we wanted. We w-wouldn’t have to hide anymore, Rick.”

A ray of moonlight is shining straight on Rick’s face, and Morty can see that he’s surprised at how certain he sounds. He’s mildly surprised at himself, kind of in awe at the fact that he’s advising Rick, he’s telling Rick what to do. In dozens of different dimensions and all kinds of situations, his grandfather has always been the one in charge; it was probably something he'd grown accustomed to years, no, decades ago. The genius has never met anyone he cared and/or respected enough to submit his intellect to their will. Even when they're having sex, Rick has never once relinquished control: he was always the one who slammed Morty against a wall before kissing him breathless, always the one to heat up a make-out session by sliding his hands under the teenager's shirt or the waistband of his jeans, always the one to make him shiver by whispering dirty words in his ear. And Morty wouldn't change it for anything in the world: he absolutely adores the way the scientist treats him like he's his possession, lives and breathes for it. 

But for all his submissiveness, Morty is far from passive. While Rick has learned how to map out every inch of his body with his fingers and play with his erogenous zones like the keys on a piano, the teenager has carefully memorised every line of Rick's face; he thought he'd studied his expressions carefully enough to know what each and every one of them means. 

The one he sees now is new to him, but he doesn't have much trouble putting the pieces together. For the first time, Rick doesn’t know what to do: so Morty takes advantage of the situation and walks up to him, puts his little hand on the old man’s face.

“You s-said yourself, you didn’t want to go a week without h-holding me in your arms again”, he says gently but firmly, gazing unwaveringly into Rick’s unsure eyes. “C-c’mon, Rick. Trust me.”

For some reason, these words seem to do the trick. Rick stares at him for a few seconds longer, then he nods, once.

That's all the ok Morty needs. In less than a few minutes, he's fully dressed and packing his clothes into an old but barely used gym bag. He doesn't even spare a glance at what he throws inside: boxers, jeans, socks, yellow shirts. After all, they could always buy or steal some if they needed more. 

He has a moment of hesitation when he sees the sparrows looking at him quietly with their dead, blank eyes. There's more than a dozen of them; there's no way he could take all of them with him. Besides, he's sure to find many weirder and more interesting creatures to work with on his travels through space: he'll have more than enough new material to work with. T _his is a new beginning for you and Rick,_ Morty tells himself as he exits his old bedroom. _No need to hang on to the past._

Despite this, he can't help but turn around at the last minute to grab the ancient-looking squirrel, slipping it carefully into his bag before closing the door and running down the stairs without looking back. He runs to the garage, where Rick is already waiting for him next to a spaceship packed with his most important experiments and half a dozen bottles of booze. 

Morty eventually finds himself in the driver’s seat; it’s not a common experience for him, but it’s not the first time either, and he quickly gets the gist of the ship’s controls. As they whizz out of the open garage door and into the night sky, flying high, high above the ground, Morty spares one last look at the little house below them before placing his small hand on Rick’s older, much larger one.

Their eyes meet, and Morty can’t help but smile. What he didn’t even realize he’d been hoping for had just happened: now it’s going to be just the two of them, forever and ever.

No more annoying Jerry to get in between them, interrupting Rick's experiments in hopes of getting some quality "father-son bonding time" with him.

No more Summer sarcastically telling them to "get a room" when they show the slightest hint of affection to each other, or shooting suspicious glances at them in the rare moments when she's not looking at her phone.

No more Beth, beautiful and intelligent Beth with her sickly sweet voice and her insufferable doting on the both of them -Beth, the only other person in the house besides Morty to receive one of Rick's rare smiles or a kiss on the cheek from him before she left for work in the mornings. Morty thinks that he'll miss her the least. 

At this moment Morty feels, _knows_ that nothing bad or scary will ever happen to them again. Not when they have each other. With Rick's strength and brilliant mind, and Morty's readiness to do whatever it takes to protect him, they might as well be immortal. 

He gives Rick’s hand a light squeeze, smiling when he feels the older man’s hand shaking.

“D-don’t worry, Rick”, he tells him. “From n-now on, it’s gonna be just you and me against the world; R-Rick and Morty for a h-hundred years, yeah?”

Rick looks up at Morty, then down at their intwined hands. He drains the last of his whisky bottle in one gulp and dangles it dangerously outside his open window.

“Yeah”, he says, letting the empty bottle crash to the surface, miles and miles below them. “S-sure”.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fair warning, I am not used to writing happy smut. I usually just write plotless porn for the sake of writing plotless porn, but I wanted to do something different with this chapter. I tried to give a glimpse of Rick and Morty's (brief) days of blissful happiness... with plotless porn.   
> Yes, you may judge me.

The surface of the planet is miles and miles below them but it’s getting closer with every second, until they can see the purple heights of towering mountains, the strangely pale fields of grass wafting in the wind, dozens of huge, cow-like mammals grazing peacefully. Rick is gripping tightly at the steering wheel, face deformed by an almost maniacal grin, whooping and cheering like a madman as they tear through the very fabric of space at breakneck speed.

“Yeeeeeeeeeaaah, M-Morty!” he roars at his grandson, sitting next to him and holding onto his seat for dear life. “Th-this is what I’m t-talking about! Arrivederci, bitches!”

“R-Rick! S-slow down, please!” Morty squeaks next to him, but he’s smiling as wide as Rick and he feels an uncontrollable fit of giggles bubble up inside him. He’s getting the wind knocked out of him, the whole spaceship is shaking and quaking as if about to erupt in a million little pieces; he feels like he’s falling through space, falling through time, falling through the universe and leaving all his problems behind like the fiery trail of a shooting star.

“Fuck all of you, Xzarflytes!” the scientist bellows at no one in particular as the spaceship comes dangerously close to a pinkish, murky looking lake.

“R-Rick, look out!” Morty cries out, a tiny spark of genuine fear in his eyes.

But of course he didn’t need to worry, never really needed to worry about anything when Rick was there, crazy and talented and absolutely brilliant Rick who always had an answer in any situation, even if it was a last minute thing.

As it turned out, he’d recently equipped the ship with automatic floaters. When they so much as skim across the surface of the water, there’s a big whooshing sound as a huge inflated raft pops up beneath the spaceship.

Neither of them says anything for a while, both too busy catching their breath and coming to the slow and mind-blowing realization that they’re still alive. The spaceship floats gently along the lakeside, the landscape of the planet striking and dream-like. Then they share a look at each other and suddenly they’re both laughing hysterically, erupting in loud, nonsensical guffaws, staring at each other with wide eyes like they can’t believe they’re still there, with each other, safe and sound on an unknown planet. Morty is struck with a strong feeling of déjà-vu: for some reason, he's reminded of his very first adventure with Rick, which had ended much in the same way. They'd traveled to countless different planets and galaxies since then, sticking their noses where they shouldn't and meddling in the politics of alien life forms "just for shits n' giggles," as Rick puts it so eloquently; every day saw them clashing with new enemies and getting into new disastrous scenarios from which they always managed to escape (mostly) unscathed. 

They’re still covered with blood –some of it their own, most of it alien—and gore, there’s scorch marks on their shirts and their faces are pink with the rush and exhaustion of running away from an army of infuriated Xzarflytes. They’d seemed nice enough at first, Rick had remarked with an eye roll, but of course all you do is try to steal just a teensy bit of Mushpix powder from them, and suddenly you’ve created a “diplomatic incident”.

They’d only just managed to escape with all their limbs intact, and they owed it to the nearby presence of this planet. Because it was inhabited by several animal species qualified as endangered, it was strictly forbidden to come to the planet with intentions of harming any living beings there: this made it the perfect place for political refugees like themselves.

“M-man, uuurrrp, th-that was a, a pretty close call, huh Morty?” Rick proudly slaps his shoulder, having come down from his sudden fit of laughter.

“I-it sure was, R-Rick”, Morty agrees, eues still grinning delightedly. “S-so are you gonna use the M-Mushpix powder to accelerate the s-ship’s power engine n-now?”

“S-sure am, dawg! A-and the b-best part is, I didn’t have to s-spend a dime”, the old man sighs happily, snapping his fingers as if to congratulate himself on a job well done.

Rick turns to look at him, smile still there but more serious now, his features looking somewhat solemn and imbued with genuine gratitude.

“Y-you know, M-Morty, I, I really couldn’t uuuurrrp, couldn’t have done it w-without your help back th-there”, he admits. “Y-you really took care of these X-Xzarflytes for me, Morty. Yer aim's g-gotten much better, got, got the eyes of a s-sniper, b-babe”.

Morty feels warm, like he’s actually glowing with pride. He smiles wide and eager back at Rick, not caring how silly he looks.

“Y-you really mean that, R-Rick?” he asks, almost timidly, even though he already knows the answer.

“S-sure I do, Morty. C-couldn’t have done it without you, b-babe, you’re my, you’re my l-little sniper buddy. I’m so, so proud of you, M-Morty.”

Morty feels himself getting hotter, breath getting quicker, like it always does every time he hears those words come out of Rick’s mouth. He scoots to the edge of his seat, leaning close to the old man, hands reaching upwards to touch his chest.

“S-so Rick”, he says, trying to sound casual and flirty at the same time, but it’s kinda ruined by how breathless his voice is. “H-how are you g-gonna, uuh, reward your l-little sniper, h-huh?”

Rick smirks at him, noticing how red his cheeks are and how rapidly his narrow chest is rising and falling; the scientist looks happier than a kid in a candy store. He scoots closer to his grandson, until their chests are almost touching, and raises a hand to lightly stroke at the side of Morty’s face, grinning widely when the teenager gasps.

“H-haven’t really decided yet, baby”, Rick purrs, letting his fingers lightly poke at the boy’s lips, Morty’s tongue reaching out to circle them. “But I can think of a few ways”.

Those are the last words Morty actually hears and understands clearly for a while, because then Rick is grabbing his hair and kissing him hard and his brain stops working. His body tries to lunge at the older man, but it’s Rick who comes closer this time, hovers above his chair so that Morty can feel the heat and weight of his body over his own.

Large skillful hands make their way under his shirt, rubbing deliciously at his skin, palming at his nipples and he knows that Rick’s not in the mood to waste any time today. He knows he’s not going to last long himself: he’s already hard, hips grinding weakly against Rick’s, making little desperate noises that would make him embarrassed if he didn’t notice the way they make Rick’s breath hitch in his throat.  
Rick starts pulling impatiently at his shirt, almost ripping it in the process; Morty raises his arms to help him get it off him, arches his back submissively to let his body melt into Rick’s chest, wrapping his arms around the older man’s torso. He shivers at the familiar smell, buries his face in it, bites and pulls with his teeth at the fabric of the lab coat as if it were skin. But when his hands struggle to find the hem of the pale blue sweater and lift it, Rick stops him by gripping his wrist.

“N-not this time, baby”, he whispers in his ear, his tone gentle but adamant. “I-It’s my turn to reward you, M-Morty”.

Morty frowns at that, feels the need to touch Rick’s bare skin, wants to peel the layers of clothes off his body with his own eager hands –something he just can’t seem to get sick of, no matter how many times he does it- needs to press himself against Rick’s naked form.

But he doesn’t stay unhappy very long, wonderfully distracted by Rick’s hand firmly gripping his cock through his jeans. A grunt escapes his lips and he thrusts forward into his grandfather’s hands, desperate for release. When Rick starts dragging his tongue teasingly along the fabric-covered bulge, Morty makes a frustrated noise through his teeth, his hands threading themselves through the scientist’s hair. “R-Rick… N-need more…”

“I know, b-baby, I know”, Rick chuckles darkly from between Morty’s legs. “Relax, M-Morty. I’m g-gonna take reeeeaaaal good care of you”.

Putting his face back into Morty’s crotch, he grabs the metal zipper between his teeth and drags it down slowly. His hands come up around Morty’s hips as the boy wiggles out of the jeans; he does a quick job of kicking the rest of his pants off, and Rick’s hands are already pulling at his boxers. In a matter of seconds he’s naked in his chair, chest heaving, cock hard and mouth open in awe as Rick kneels between his legs and puts his mouth to work.

It’s not the first time he receives a blowjob from the older man; but Morty knows now that no matter how much experience he has, there is no getting used to this feeling. Every time it happens Morty is surprised, taken aback by the same merciless rush of pleasure, just as strong after all this time. Every time, he feels like he needs to just stop everything for a second to marvel at the fact that this is happening, that Rick Sanchez, genius scientist, wanted criminal, self-procclaimed alcoholic asshole and his grandfather, is sucking his dick.

The genius takes his time now, as if to admire the sight before him. He kisses the head, lets his tongue dip briefly into Morty’s dripping slit, lightly sucks at his balls before nuzzling his face into the inside of his thigh, sighing contentedly like a man at home.But Morty won’t have any of this torturous, prolonged teasing; he makes it known by grabbing a fistful of the scientist’s hair and pulling, hard, the way he knows Rick likes it. The old man moans, the sound sending a deep vibration through his cock, making it twitch. Rick takes the hint, sends one last look at Morty with that devilish grin of his, then takes his entire length in his mouth.

Morty cries out; if he wasn’t sitting right now, his legs would’ve buckled under his weight. It’s amazing, the warmth and wetness of Rick’s mouth enclosing him tightly, and he wonders briefly if this is what fucking him feels like for Rick.

The older man is bobbing his head up and down his cock now, deepthroating him; embarrassingly loud moans are pouring out of Morty’s mouth, and his arms come up to shield his face as if of their own accord.

“N-no, Morty”, Rick orders, voice low and growling. “I-I want to see you, M-Morty”.

Morty complies, arms falling limply to his sides. Rick immediately goes back to business, his mouth licking and swallowing every inch like a starved man at a feast.

Morty can’t help but feel that there’s something surreal, out of this world about what’s happening here. Maybe it has something to do with the alien landscape around them. He's gone through a lot of weird shit this past year, but he’d never before had his dick sucked in a spaceship floating on a pink lake, surrounded by pale blue grass and violet mountains, in an atmosphere that looks opaque and greenish as if this whole place were underwater.

The sun comes out, bright red and radiant, and light suddenly floods into the spaceship, tinting everything in hues of red, purple and pink. Big, fluffy clouds float by lazily, looking like strawberry-flavored cotton candy; the lake around them looks like a pool of Gazorpacoke. Morty feels like he’s melting into his chair, melting into the sunlight that’s hitting his face, melting into the world around him, his bones and sinews turning to something warm and soft and sugary.

Most of all he's melting into Rick; it’s as if Rick is sucking his very essence out of him and Morty feels like he’s losing himself. It’s just so _wonderful_ and amazing and crazy, the fact that this is all happening right now right here, on this unknown planet, with Rick.

Morty starts bucking his hips, fucking into Rick’s throat, unable to stop himself; he knows he’s about to come any second now and he knows this orgasm will tear him apart, rip through everything that he is. But it’s ok, it’s fine, everything is fine because Rick is here, Rick is always here to kiss him and stroke him and call him _baby, honey, sweetheart,_ to put all his pieces back together and make Morty whole again after he’s done destroying him.

He comes hard in Rick’s mouth, with a moan and a strangled cry of Rick’s name; his lover keeps it all in his mouth, rising up to Morty’s face and kissing him languidly so that he can taste himself on Rick’s tongue. Morty kisses back with all his might despite how exhausted he suddenly is, desperately trying to give back to Rick, to thank him, to give him back just as much as the older man has ever given to him and more, though he knows he’ll never be able to.

He’ll never be able to repay Rick for everything he’s given him, everything he’s brought into his life. No matter how hard he tries, he’ll never be able to change his life the way Rick changed his completely. What he can do –what he absolutely needs to do—is spend the rest of his life protecting and defending Rick and putting his heart and soul into making him happy. That’s the one thing he wants to accomplish in this life, the first and only true goal he has ever had –and Rick had given him that, too. The fact that their bond is one of the only constants in the multiverse -in every reality they've experienced, there's always a Morty protecting a Rick- makes his heart beat faster sometimes: he feels so happy that the universe was kind enough to give his life this purpose, this reason to be alive, he feels so impossibly grateful and so, so in love with Rick.

Rick pulls back to look at him, his eyes soft and tender. He follows every line of Morty’s face, every inch of his skin, lightly thumbing at the pouted lips. His gaze is so intent it makes Morty feel like he’s about to self-combust.

“W-what’s the matter, R-Rick?” he asks, almost worried.

Rick chuckles lightly at the question, fondly cradling his face in his hands.

“N-nothing in the world’s the matter,” he answers. “Y-you’re just s-so g-goddamn beautiful, M-Morty”.

The genius dips his head into Morty’s collarbone, nips and bites at the naked skin there before licking a stripe along his Adam’s apple.“F-fucking perfect”, he mutters, voice muffled.

His hand lightly strokes Morty’s hair as he brings their foreheads together and kisses him once, then twice, like he just couldn’t get enough the first time.

Morty's heart has sprouted wings and is causing all kinds of ruckus in his chest cavity, flying clumsily all over the place like a crazed baby bird. He wraps his arms around Rick's neck and pulls him, kisses him back lazily. This right now is his favorite moment, the post-orgasm afterglow, the peaceful calm after the dizzying fireworks of pleasure. In moments like these Morty knows that no one else in the world is loved the way Rick loves him. 

"W-wish I could hold you in my arms for the next hundred years, k-kiddo," the scientist mutters against his skin, nuzzling into the spot where the boy's neck melds into his shoulder. Morty gasps lightly, tightens his hold on him. A hundred years doesn't even come _close_ to being enough; he'll settle for nothing less than forever. 

A few minutes later, they're both sprawled out on the floor of the spaceship, Rick naked and rutting against him, their limbs bundled together so closely Morty isn’t sure anymore where his body ends and where his lover’s starts.

Rick doesn’t let up on the dirty talk -he's always liked that, after all. His tongue trickles a constant, steady stream of agonisingly sweet filth into the boy's ears, calling him sexy and hot and _his own personal little slut_ ; but the softness of his hands and the way he’s looking at Morty with burning eyes make him feel like the most beautiful thing in the world.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys, sooo this is the new chapter... To any readers out there, I'm really sorry for going so long without updating (especially as I've had the next three chapters in my computer for months now pleasedontkillme). College's been hectic, and I haven't been feeling super confident about this fic; but I figured since it's done, I might as well post it. I hope you enjoy!

 

When H312 Morty first meets Pretty Morty, he instantly despises him.

Of course, he didn’t come alone; he practically cat walked out of the green portal in the middle of the spaceship, holding onto the arm of a Rick who looked very much like Morty’s own –a couple shades paler, with bulging bloodshot eyes and a smoking problem (not that H312 Rick doesn’t smoke; but his poison of choice tends to be alcohol). They’d been invited by Rick himself for a “science experiment”, as he’d put it; apparently this Rick had priceless information to give him that could affect the potential success of an experiment, so they had to make sure to give him a warm welcome.

So supposedly this was more of a business meeting than anything else, Morty had thought. But it certainly didn’t seem that way: from the moment the two guests had shown up in their ship, Rick hadn’t done much except offer drinks and drugs to them and crack stupid jokes. The other Rick settles down early on, once he finds a few dozen pouches of K-lax; it’s up to H312 Rick and Morty to entertain their young guest, while his mentor snorts lines of powdery blue crystal.

You could have called Pretty Morty a lot of things –stupid, silly, shallow, but you couldn’t say he was ugly. All long eyelashes curling above wide Bambi-like brown eyes, loose silky brown curls delicately framing his face, rosy and pouty lips, a figure that managed to be fit yet still desirably thin and frail-looking, Pretty Morty is everything a sugar daddy could want and more. Instead of a large crumpled yellow tee, he’s wearing a tight tank top that clings to his shape, and designer skinny jeans.

When he walks around the ship –or rather sashays across it, swinging his bony hips like a runway model—there seems to be a heavily flirtatious sentiment in his every step, like an exquisite and stomach churning perfume following wherever he goes. The pitch of his voice is slightly higher than his own, Morty notices, and even his stutter sounds less awkward, almost artful; every crack of his voice is accompanied by a sickeningly shy look and a light blush across his face.

H312 Morty has seen other versions of himself before, but never this close, and he’s never had the opportunity to scrutinize any of them: now, as he looks at Pretty Morty, he’s struck for the first time by how similar yet how utterly different this other self is from him. At first glance, their faces are exactly the same; and even after a close study, the differences are tiny, hard to pick out. It’s still a Morty’s face: round and pale and youthful looking, often making them seem younger than their fourteen years of age—but the minute flaws that H312 Morty can see in his own features are nowhere to be found in Pretty Morty. The eyes are bigger and of a slightly lighter, more alluring shade of brown; the hair is longer than his own, with wavier strands, the teeth are perfectly white and straight as if they’d already gone through a retainer, the lips are fuller and redder, the slight acne is gone, leaving the skin smooth and shimmering like a porcelain doll’s. Put simply, Morty is looking at an enhanced version of himself: it’s him, only better.

H312 Morty feels a rush of jealousy and insecurity; he can’t help himself. But this sudden moment of self-doubt is short-lived; this Morty may be prettier than him, but it’s quite obvious that he’s no genius. Fluttering around the spaceship like a little bird, he asks Rick about everything –every single little thing inside the ship, from the trashcan to the electric fan, pointing to them and exclaiming “what’s that?!” with an air of amazement and disbelief.

Morty rolls his eyes and inwardly marvels at his Rick’s patience; he looks at the pretty little thing with disdain, judges him to be unworthy of being a Morty –unworthy of protecting a Rick. His dimension’s Rick must have truly bad taste; he knows that H312 Rick never would’ve settled for such a silly nitty (he probably can’t even protect himself in battle, let alone another person). Not when he has _him_.

Filled to the brim with pride for both him and his Rick, Morty looks over to the old man, expecting to read the very same thoughts and emotions in his face. But Rick’s not looking at him; he’s leaning over the pretty one and telling him about one of his latest inventions, body awkwardly bent under the ceiling of the ship, one hand resting on the small, naked shoulder. The other Rick seems completely oblivious, cutting up lines of K-lax with a credit card in a corner.

Morty feels his stomach drop. Suddenly one of them says or does something funny –probably one of Rick’s dirty jokes—and they both erupt into laughter, Pretty Morty’s irritating giggles like shattering glass. Rick’s spidery fingers tighten briefly on Pretty Morty’s shoulder and H312 Morty feels his eyebrows furrow, his whole face become stern and cold like stone.

Pretty Morty leaves soon after that, thankfully, tagging along his completely sloshed Rick. H312 Morty holds in a sigh of relief as he finally sees the chirpy little cretin disappear into the green light of a portal. He can’t help but notice the way his Rick’s eyes linger on Pretty Morty’s form, following the line of his back all the way to the rounded curve of his butt. A new wave of self-doubt crashes upon him, much, much stronger than the previous one; this time it’s not jealousy, it’s full on panic that he’s drowning in.

Forcing himself to turn away from the disgusting sight, he sits himself down idly on the floor of the spaceship. His heart’s in his throat and his hands are all gross and clammy; he thinks he’s about to have a full blown anxiety attack any second now, but his face still feels as unmoving and rigid as a block of stone.

Rick turns back to look at him, a wide smile still stretched across his face.

“S-so what’d’you s-say, M-Morty? T-that R-Rick s-eurgh, sure is a rascal, isn’t he?”

Morty doesn’t reply anything at first; what could he reply to that? Nevertheless, he recognizes that staying silent and moody is not an option. That’s the kind of thing that annoys Rick, and as much as Morty is upset at him right now, the last thing he wants is for Rick to be annoyed.

So he stands up uneasily, tries to make his face look less sour somehow and turns to Rick, hands shoved deep inside his pockets to hide the nervous twitching of his fingers.

“Did you get everything you wanted from him?” he tries to ask casually as possible, but his voice comes out unusually cold and emotionless.

“H-uuuurrrp, hell yeah I did! Old s-sucker helped m-me, helped m-me out a b-bunch, Morty; all he asked for in ex-eurgh, in exchange w-was a c-couple lines of K-lax. K-lax, M-Morty, can you b-believe that?”

Rick laughs incredulously as he lets himself slink back into his chair, arms crossed leisurely behind his head, the ship’s command on autopilot. He seems to be in an exceptionally good mood, Morty notices, doubt gnawing at his insides. He doesn’t control what he says next; the words tumble out of his mouth without reaching his brain first.

“I feel sorry for him”, he says, voice still cold and not sounding like he feels sorry for anyone or anything at all.

“Uuurrrrp, w-why? B-because the s-sucker’s the b-biggest K-lax addict and he l-lives in a, a d-dimension where finding s-some is virtually impossible? T-that’s why he’s g-got me, dawg!”

“I feel bad that he has to settle for such a stupid Morty”, he blurts out without a trace of a stutter. In the corner of his vision he can see Rick’s head whipping back to look at him with surprise, and his throat suddenly feels tighter. “I, I mean, a M-Morty is supposed to p-protect his Rick, y’know? Th-that’s what we’re h-here for. Th-that Morty doesn’t- doesn’t even look like he can fight. S-seems like a ch-chore to have to stay, have to stay around s-such an idiot.”

He turns to look at his Rick, half-afraid, waiting for his approval as always. For a second there’s nothing but silence, and Morty sees a strange flicker of an emotion he can’t decipher pass through the old man’s eyes; something that he doesn’t quite know what to think of and it makes his heart tighten in his chest. But when Rick throws his head back and lets out a full-bellied laugh, he feels at once stupid and relieved.

“Man, M-Morty, sometimes I, sometimes I forget what a v-vicious little shit you can be”, he says good-naturedly, still grinning widely. “You’re too, uuurrrp, you’re too harsh w-with yourself, M-Morty, w-with your other s-self. I’m a, I’m a lucky ol’ fucker, Morty; not every R-Rick is gifted w-with a smart, smart l-little fighter l-like you.”

Rick reaches over and tenderly ruffles his hair before turning his attention back to the wheel and barking an order at the ship, and Morty feels like everything is right with the world once again.

 

 

 


	7. Chapter 7

Something is very, very wrong and H312 Morty is determined to get to the bottom of it.

The past few days have been strange, different from how they usually spend their time: there’d been less stealing, less killing, less running away from aliens hellbent on lynching them. Instead, there had been parties, meetings with friends or acquaintances from different planets and dimensions, and many, many other Ricks and their Morties. The spaceship has been crawling with them. In the space of a week, Morty’s seen his own face more times than he had during his whole life up to now: Greaser Morties with their black leather jackets and slicked back hair, Punk Morties with their wild-colored mohawks and metal piercings, Cowboy Morties that looked like they came straight out of a bad western, that one weird Morty who looked kind of like Eric Stoltz. Pretty Morty’s been back too, clinging to the arm of his K-lax addict Rick. He’d recognized H312 Morty and actually waved shyly at him from across the crowded spaceship –something Morty hadn’t bothered dignifying with a response.

Morty doesn’t do well in parties; he hates being around other people. Hell, even the presence of his family had been hard to tolerate: it wasn’t torture, but it wasn’t exactly pleasant either –kind of like a sore tooth that just wouldn’t go away. He’d resorted to locking himself in his room every day with his stuffed animals, until Rick had showed up. Knowing that the old man was nothing if not a party animal –as long as there was plenty of booze and drugs—he’d learnt to deal with the company of other people. But that didn’t mean he liked it, or that it didn’t take a toll on him, and the last week has just been an endless string of parties with other Ricks and Morties and aliens parading around the place, taking up all his personal space. His Rick’s apparently been having a blast, and Morty just wishes he would put a damper on things and allow them to have some peace and quiet –for his sake. He wishes it were just him and Rick again, just the two of them drifting through space, the way it’s always been. Lately he’s barely had any alone time with Rick, and the fact that Rick doesn’t seem to miss it quite as much as him worries him endlessly.

Every time he walks up to Rick during one of their parties, hoping for some one on one time (or, if he’s lucky, a quick romp in the coat closet), Rick just smiles that half-drunk, half-stoned smile at him and tells him to “cheer uuuurrrp, cheer up, M-Morty! Here, w-why don’t you go, go talk to th-those Morties over there?”

And now, as if it weren’t enough already, they’re going to the Citadel of Ricks. They hardly ever went, as was the case for the majority of Ricks and Morties who didn’t reside permanently at the Citadel. Most of them knew what was waiting for them over there: the Council had a reputation that preceded itself, and it was safe to say that Ricks knew better than anyone just how much of an asshole they could be. H312 Rick was no exception to the rule; he despised the Council and grimaced whenever they came up in the conversation.

When he’d first brought up the subject of paying a visit to the Citadel, Rick had seemed at once annoyed and resigned. But Morty hadn’t been able to get a more developed explanation than, “uuurrrp, it’s been a, been a while since I’ve b-been to the ol’ sheep sh-shack, Morty. B-better drop by, j-just in case.”

Truth be told, Morty didn’t have such strong feelings of distate towards the Citadel. Sure, it was always kind of boring, waiting for Rick’s meeting with the Council to be over –especially as he was often approached by other waiting Morties who’d try and start a conversation with him. After a while it was easy to ignore them, though. And Rick would always emerge from the meeting room looking disgusted and infuriated; he’d drag Morty back to the spaceship and take off in a hurry, and Morty never had to wait long before he was pressed up against the dashboard, Rick’s mouth eager against his own and long, skillful fingers reaching under his shirt. They never had better sex than right after these meetings that pissed off his Rick like nothing else could; Rick would never be as passionate, rough and truly desperate as he was then, and Morty never felt more wanted, more needed than he did in those moments.

Upon arriving at the Citadel, Rick parks his spaceship a little too close to one of the Council member’s, “just to fuck with him”, as he puts it himself. Then they’re making their way to the meeting room, Rick advancing with long, angry strides, lab coat floating behind him like the cape of a superhero, his Morty following faithfully behind. They arrive at the main door of the Citadel, which is heavily guarded by four Ricks with stern faces, wearing their typical white uniforms. The guards open the door for them and escort them down a large, pristine looking hallway that leads to the conference room.

One of the guards knocks on the door, stifles a burp before announcing, “the Council will see you now”.

“Uuuurrrp, thanks for the hint, butthead”, Rick snorts derisively, and Morty smiles dutifully behind him.

They make their way through the door and into the conference room. It’s big and majestic and a bit intimidating as always, and Morty finds himself instinctively walking closer to his Rick; he knows the two of them were forced to give up their guns upon entering the Citadel, and the room is swarming with fully armed guards. If the Council suddenly decided to arrest Rick (something they had very nearly escaped several times), Morty would have to find an ingenious way to get them out of here, fast.

“Welcome, Rick from dimension H312”, one of the Council elders says –one Morty has recognized as Riq IV. “It’s sure been a long time since you decided to ah, grace us with your presence.”  
“Skip the sarcasm, your Honor”, Rick snaps, eyes narrowed, his own voice dripping with irony. “You uuurrrp, you s-summoned me and I came h-here, but it d-doesn’t mean I’ve got m-much time to waste in th-this dump. So w-what’s the d-deal?”

Morty feels a customary wave of pride rush through him at hearing his Rick’s untamed attitude. He might obey the Council’s orders and summons to avoid making their lives even more complicated than they already are (lord knows the Citadel could give them hell for not complying), but that doesn’t mean he’s ready to make himself their lapdog, and he takes every chance to remind them of this fact.

Riq IV briefly narrows his eyes, before a smirk slowly appears on his face. He glances from the side at his four colleagues, and the five identical faces take on the exact same expression before fixing their eyes on H312 Rick.

“We’ve called you here for a good reason, Rick”, Riq IV says, his voice thick and heavy with something unpleasant that Morty can’t quite put his finger on. “There’s been… advances in our current field of experimentation. We thought you’d like to know; maybe see for yourself.”

Morty sees Rick’s shoulders stiffen visibly, before he slumps down and lets out a sigh. By now, this has become a routine, and Morty knows what will follow: since his first visit to the Citadel, the Council’s experiments have always been “classified” and “confidential”. Every time the subject is mentioned, Morty is instructed to exit the room and wait by the doors, along with about half a dozen of other Morties. It’s always nerve wracking, the thought of leaving Rick alone in the conference room with all those guards and Council members, completely disarmed. But Morty braces himself, lowering his face, already taking a step backwards when he’s suddenly stopped by Riq IV’s voice.

“Your Morty can stay this time” he says, and H312 Rick’s head snaps up. “The experiment has more or less reached its final stage; we think it would be appropriate for him to witness it.”

“Th-the fuck?!” Rick exclaims, sounding inexplicably outraged. “Y-you’ve been hellbent on n-not letting him see a g-goddamn thing for the past t-two years a-and now suddenly you want him to see the w-whole thing? W-what’s your end game?”

“The experiment hasn’t been ready for the past two years, Rick”, a Council member says insistently, blue eyebrows furrowing together menacingly. “Now that it’s done, we want him to see the results. This has always been part of the plan.”

“B-bullshit,” Rick spits out, a frown distorting his features. “H-he’s my M-Morty, not yours, and if I s-say he c-can’t see it, he c-can’t. W-why would he even w-want to see something like th-that?”

The disgust in his voice is clear, and Morty wonders if he’s hallucinating when he sees a shiver wrack the old man’s frame. His curiosity and his apprehension are sparked at once: what could be so shocking and horrifying that it could scare even Rick? And why does he seem so adamant on the idea of not letting Morty see it?

Riq IV clears his throat loudly. “You don’t seem to understand what’s happening here, Rick. Let me rephrase myself: it’s not that your Morty can stay and watch. It’s that he has to stay and watch. You don’t have a choice in the matter and you know it.”

Rick stands firmly in front of Morty in a protective stance, frowning at the Council. His eyes flit to the armed guards and back at the elders’ stern, unforgiving faces, and once again his shoulders slump defeatedly. Morty frowns, hates that anyone could make Rick, his Rick, feel so powerless.

“I guess I do”, the old man admits, his voice now completely emotionless.

“We have an understanding then,” Riq IV concludes, looking very satisfied with himself. “Bring in subject Z346.”

The doors of the conference room open, letting in four other guard Ricks, wheeling in what looks like a big, rectangular box covered by a white sheet. Morty sees his Rick tense up, his fists closing so tight that their knuckles look like they’re about to puncture his skin. He wants to hold his hand, to stroke his face, to look him in the eyes and make him understand that it’s ok, everything is ok. That he doesn’t need to be this scared, not when Morty’s right here by his side. But his Rick doesn’t move an inch, doesn’t even look at him. His face is devoid of any emotion; Morty almost feels like he’s looking at a mortuary mask and he starts to feel frightened.

“Rick and Morty from dimension H312, behold”, Riq IV declares solemnly, hand stretched out towards the covered box. “This is the final and most perfected stage of the experiment we have been working on for the past two years, otherwise known as Operation Protect the Citadel.”

Morty doesn’t look at the Council or at the box; his eyes are on Rick’s face. He’s waiting for a smirk, an eye roll, a smart ass comment such as “reeeeaal smart name for an experiment, geniuses”, anything. Nothing comes. Instead, he notices how hard and drawn Rick’s jaw looks, how pale he suddenly is.

“H312 Morty”, Riq IV calls out, snapping Morty out of his focus. “Keep your eyes on the experiment, kid. We want you to see this.”

Riq IV is looking straight at him –for the first time, Morty realizes suddenly. He’d never known how dark and penetrating that familiar yet unknown blue gaze could be; he feels like it’s piercing his body and pinning him to his spot. He has no choice but to nod once, quietly, and turn his eyes to the big covered box.

Apparently, this gives the cue to one of the guard Ricks; and he unveils the box in one swift motion like a magician on stage reveals a fully clothed monkey dancing in a cage. But instead of a performing monkey, it’s a Morty they see, dressed in his most typical outfit –large fitted yellow t-shirt, jeans and sneakers. He’s sitting on the floor of the box, twiddling something or other in his fingers, completely ignoring his surroundings and the dozens of pairs of eyes on him.

There’s nothing extraordinary about the sight; at least, not as far as H312 Morty can tell, and he’s getting more and more puzzled at his Rick’s behavior. Said Rick is still keeping his eyes on the ground, pointedly avoiding looking at him or at his caged counterpart.

“Rick, don’t you want to look too?” Riq IV teases cruelly, gloating at his other self’s visible discomfort.

“I already know what I’m gonna see”, Rick grunts under his breath. “And I have no desire to look at it.”

Riq IV shrugs casually, a smirk growing on his face once again. “Suit yourself”, he says, “your Morty’s seeing it anyway.”

Morty keeps his eyes trained on his other self, resisting the temptation to look back at his Rick, or take his hand in his.

The caged Morty –subject Z346—finally stops twiddling his fingers and reveals a small, square object in his hands. Morty easily recognizes it as a portal gun, one that looks somewhat newer and more advanced than the ones Rick and him use, like a 2.0 version.

“Yes, that’s a portal gun you’re seeing, Morty”, Riq IV says, seeing the look of recognition on his face. “A better, faster, enhanced version of the one we confiscated from you at the entrance of the Citadel. It uses half the energy needed to operate yours, and leads you to more places –places that are protected with the newest and most high tech security measures. It also has the advantage of self-erasing its traces, making it impossible to track. And believe it or not, kid, this was not a Rick’s invention; this gun was designed and made by a Morty.”

It’s impossible for Morty not to feel a twinge of awe; Rick’s taught him all the steps to making a portal gun, but he’s never actually made one with his own two hands, and certainly not one as complex as this one. H312 Morty has never felt truly stupid before, even though he knows this to be a common trait in his alter egos –his Rick has always praised him on how smart and wise and brave he was. But now, looking at subject Z346’s invention, he can’t not notice the huge gap there is between the two of them. He looks closely at the other Morty, and he’s never seen his own face look so concentrated, so utterly focused, an expression that just radiates intelligence and skill; he looks more like a Rick than a Morty, H312 Morty thinks.

“Yeah, he’s a smart little one alright”, Riq IV goes on proudly. “We made sure of that. And if you think he’s all brains and no fight, take a look at this.”

Suddenly subject Z346’s posture changes drastically, going from drawn in and crunched over his invention to standing firmly on his legs, feet separated by half a meter, one in front and the other behind, arms up in an intimidating fighting stance. His face is still scrunched in concentration, eyes staring straight ahead, ready to defend himself. The pose exudes an aura of strength and absolute preparedness, and once again Morty feels diminished. He knows he can do alright for himself, knows how to fight tooth and nail against aliens and whatnot, knows how to protect Rick; up until this very moment, he’d thought he was the best Morty that could ever protect his Rick. But now, looking at Z346, it’s obvious he’d never be able to hold his ground against this version of himself. It’s like the Pretty Morty scenario all over again, except this time it’s much, much worse. He’s not just looking at his sexier, more seductive doppelganger: he’s looking at someone who’s better than him at fulfilling his sole purpose in life, and the crushing insecurity is like a swift jump-kick to the face.

“And now, Morty, don’t you want to peek behind the curtain?” Riq IV asks teasingly, hands splayed under his chin, leaning forward slightly and Morty thinks the look in his ice blue eyes is downright devilish. “Don’t worry, you can look all you want –he can’t see any of us; he’s surrounded by one way mirrors.”

Morty doesn’t have much of a choice, so he nods again, glancing once at his Rick to see his expression going from emotionless to horrified.

“L-look, your honors, c-can’t we stop now? M-Morty’s seen enough”, Rick speaks up politely, almost pleadingly. It chills Morty’s blood.

“He hasn’t seen everything”, Riq IV replies, briefly and mercilessly.

As he sees Rick’s body slump down even more, Morty throws all caution to the wind and grabs his hand. He looks up at his grandfather, a reassuring smile on his face. “It’s okay, R-Rick”, he whispers. “Everything’s gonna be alright; y-you don’t need to w-worry.”

He gets only silence in response. Rick’s hands are still balled into fists, every line of his face pulled taut like a bowstring.

An unnerving whirring sound distracts Morty and turns his attention back to subject Z346. To his astonishment, one of the guard Ricks has produced a round, electric saw, which he is introducing inside the glass case through an opening in the wall. With practiced precision, he slices a clean line all around the Morty’s forehead, neatly separating his scalp from the rest of his head. Then the saw is gone, replaced with Rick’s own gloved hand carefully pulling at the curly brown locks, as if trying to remove an especially resilient wig.

Morty can feel Rick cringing beside him and wonders why. Rick has seen his fair share of brains and guts and gory wounds, and during their years of wild adventures together, so has Morty. He’s never been that squeamish about such matters himself, removing internal organs being a necessary step in taxidermy. All in all they’re both pretty desensitized, so he doesn’t understand what could make Rick look so uncomfortable and apprehensive.

Then the guard Rick finally manages to pull the scalp off Z346 Morty’s head, but there are no brains under there. There isn’t even blood. Instead, a bundle of multicolored wires is packed tight inside the brain cavity, emitting occasional sparks of light and small, buzzing noises. The guard Rick plunges his fingers into the maze of wires and rummages around for a while, determinedly searching for something in a manner that would definitely be gross if there was an actual brain there. He eventually pulls out a tiny, blue and square object with a beeping green light, holding it up for everyone to see.

“H312 Morty”, Riq IV’s voice booms. “Do you know what you are looking at?”

Morty scrunches his face in concentration, squinting at the small blue object.

“U-uuh… no…” he admits truthfully.

“This is how we recycle Morties that are no longer of any use to us”, Riq explains. “When a Morty becomes too weak, too slow, in any way unfit to protect his Rick, we take him into our hands and give him a new purpose. We enhance him; we make him better, faster, stronger, and a whole lot smarter. For this, the average or lower than average Morty brains need to be removed, and replaced with a much more complex mechanism that perfectly imitates the structure of a highly intelligent human brain. What you see in that Rick’s hand right now,” the Council Rick continues, pointing to the guard Rick, “is the key part of this experiment. See, the artificial brain has one flaw: it can’t operate independently. It depends on orders received from a transmitter, placed in a separate location. This object is responsible for receiving and interpreting the orders, thus allowing Z346 Morty to act them out.”

Morty nods slowly, mildly amazed by the complexity of the invention. Only mildly, though; he’s too accustomed to Rick’s genius and inventivity to feel surprised that they could pull off something like this.  
“W-wait”, he stutters out, a thought occurring to him suddenly. “I-if that’s the receiver in th-there… Then w-where’s the transmitter?”

Riq IV’s smile grows and grows until it takes up his whole face and Morty is disturbingly reminded of a Cheshire cat. The old man looks particularly delighted, as if he’s about to drop the punchline to a great joke.

“That’s the best part, Morty”, he says. “the transmitter is also inside a person. It’s been implanted in the brain of a Rick.”

The words sound somewhat final, as if they were supposed to be some kind of groundbreaking revelation. Morty doesn’t really understand and feels slightly stupid; every Rick in the Council is staring at him, looking like they’re waiting for something and he has no idea what they expect from him. Is he supposed to feel shocked, freak out?

“S-so”, he starts out timidly, “it’ll be k-kind of like that R-Rick and th-that Morty can like, c-communicate with each other t-telepathically or s-something?”

“Not quite, Morty. You see, the communication will only really go one way: from Rick to Morty. Morty doesn’t have a brain anymore, nor does he have an implanted transmitter: that makes him unable to do anything but receive orders and informations from Rick. He’ll be able to cross huge distances and go on dangerous missions, all while being controlled by a Rick inside the Citadel.”  
Riq IV finishes speaking, and once again there’s a heavy, pregnant pause. The atmosphere feels impossibly still and thick at once; there’s a feeling of expectation in the air. The Council is starting to look at him a bit impatiently now, like the audience of a play waiting for the climax of the show.

Morty feels himself getting a bit annoyed. He doesn’t know what they expect to see from him; if this is everything they’ve kept from him for two years now, it was hardly worth the trouble. Right now all he wants is to be alone in the spaceship, traveling through space and away from the Citadel, with his Rick.

As if on cue, Rick suddenly lets out a long, quiet, shaky sigh; it’s a low, strangely hopeless sound and Morty is instantly alarmed.

“Rick!” he cries, squeezing the old man’s hand. “Are you okay?”

Rick’s head turns to him, looking into Morty’s face for the first time since they’d come into the conference room. Morty’s never seen him look so surprised. Rick looks completely flabbergasted; it’s like he’s just been hit over the head with something incredibly heavy, or been presented with an absurd math equation that doesn’t make an iota of sense. His eyes search Morty’s expression, looking desperately for traces of something, and find nothing. His lips quiver once, twice, as if he’s about to say something, ask a question, but no sound comes out and he eventually gives up. His arm wraps around Morty’s shoulder and squeezes it hard, almost painfully –as if Morty had just gone through something terrible and was the one needing reassurance. Morty can’t think of a reason why Rick would believe that, but he’s not complaining, certainly not when the old man is pulling him flush against his side, arm splayed protectively against his lower back. Rick looks up defiantly at the Council, a distinctly mocking snarl on his face.

“C-can we get the h-hell out of here now?” he asks, his voice low and dark.

Shock is written all over Riq IV’s face: his jaw has practically dropped to his desk. But the look of surprise quickly fades into one of dejection and disgusted resignation.

“Fine”, he answers simply, waving them away with his hand. “You may go”.

Morty breathes a sigh of relief; the atmosphere in this room was beginning to get seriously uncomfortable, and he feels like Rick really needs to get away from this place.

In the spaceship as they’re flying away from the Citadel at top speed, Rick is anything but calm. Morty has rarely seen him this angry; the scientist is seething, hands gripping the wheel so tightly Morty’s afraid it’s going to snap off. They’re whizzing past stars and planets, barely avoiding stray asteroids and bits of debris, and Rick is cursing at everyone and everything, out of his mind with outrage.

“I, I mean it’s n-not like I actually ever had high expectations for th-these motherfuckin’ sheep, s-stupid sons of bitches –but I never thought even they would g-go so fucking low as to do that to Morties… D-did they not think th-they were b-big enough assholes already? I, I mean how, how power hungry c-can they be? Th-they already control basically every fucking R-Rick and Morty in the universe, what more do they need?! Fuckin’ Christ…”

Morty’s standing behind him, one hand on Rick’s shoulder, unsure what to do. So he doesn’t think before asking the next question.

“Wh-what are you so mad about, R-Rick?”

Rick whips around in his chair so fast he barely sees it.

“A-Are you fucking kidding me, M-Morty?!” he exclaims, throwing his arms in the air. “You’re r-really, you’re really asking w-why I’m mad right now? D-did you not see w-what they did to, to that Morty in th-there? They, they removed his brain, M-Morty, probably, probably s-scooped it out reeeeaaal nice with a, with a f-fucking ice cream scoop o-or whatnot. Then they, they p-put a bunch of wires inside to, to make him into a f-fucking puppet, Morty. B-bastards are so p-proud of themselves in succeeding to m-make a Morty smart, w-when all they did is t-turn him into some, some k-kind of sick robot th-they can control with a remote c-control or somethin’…”

“I-I think it was a transmitter, R-Rick,” Morty can’t help but correct.

“Cut the c-crap, Morty, you know w-what I’m uuuurrrp, t-talking about”, Rick snaps, dismissing his input. “How can you not be bothered, s-seeing something like that?! Y-you heard the asshole, that’s what, that’s what they’re doing to a-abandoned Morties now, p-poor rascals who don’t have anyone to look after them… They t-turn them into, into mindless puppets to serve their own interests, M-Morty! They send them out on d-dangerous missions so that, so that they can stay safely tucked in their beds at the Citadel!”

Morty feels it again suddenly, the dull but steady bubble of jealousy and insecurity deep in his guts. Hearing Rick talk so passionately about other Morties makes his stomach churn, and he realizes with consternation how familiar this feeling has become to him.

“Wh-why do you even c-care anyway?” he blurts out. “Th-these Morties were unfit! D-doesn’t that make them b-better at their job? Wh-why are you defending them?”

Rick turns his head at him, gives him a look that says he doesn’t know whether Morty is playing a joke on him or if he’s just genuinely stupid. It’s a look that hurts, one that makes Morty feel like he can’t put two and two together, but it’s not the first time he gets it from Rick so he stands his ground.

“The question here isn’t w-why, why I’m defending them, Morty, it’s why you aren’t! Are you a-an idiot? Are you pulling my leg here or d-do you really not see why s-something like this should bother you?

“N-no!” Morty bursts out. “I’m not pulling your leg, Rick! I-I don’t know why this should bother me!”

“It s-should bother you because you’re a Morty, M-Morty!” Rick yells back at him, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “B-because they’re doing that to you, d-doing that t-to your own kind! D-don’t you have a little, little s-solidarity or, or something?”

Understanding dawns on Morty; it never occurred to him that what bothered Rick was that angle of the problem. But doubt still lingers in him, filling him with bitterness and endless questions.  
“Y-you don’t seem t-to have a lot of s-solidarity for your own kind, R-Rick”, he remarks snidely.

At that, Rick lets out a frustrated sigh and tiredly drags his hand across his face; Morty knows he’s touched upon a subject Rick doesn’t like to talk about.

“Th-that’s different, Morty, R-Ricks, we’re brilliant assholes, f-for the most part. W-we can take care of ourselves. M-Morties aren’t so smart. N-not the m-majority anyway. Th-they’ve got to s-stick together if, if they wanna s-survive in this cutthroat universe.”

There’s silence for a while, Rick having seemingly calmed down as he grips the wheel in a looser hold now, eyes fixed straight on the road ahead.

“Shit, I th-thought you knew that, M-Morty,” he says in a quieter voice. “I th-thought it was obvious.”

Morty lowers his head, torn inside. On the one hand, he feels like he’s let Rick down; that’s certainly the message the scientist is trying to get to him. But on the other hand, he feels prickly and burning all over with the remnants of doubt and anxiety: Rick felt bad for other Morties. That meant Rick cared about other Morties. Why else would he have been so mad, so angered by what the Citadel did to Z346 Morty? Did he care about those other Morties more than he did about him…?

“Th-thought you would f-flip out, M-Morty”, Rick goes on. “Thought you’d hate me and… and w-want to leave. That’s what they w-were waiting for.”

Suddenly everything makes sense to Morty: how scared Rick had looked, how he’d avoided looking at Morty, the look of impatient expectation on the Council’s members’ faces. He understands now: Rick was afraid Morty would abandon him after seeing what they’d done to a Morty. He almost wants to laugh with the relief of having figured it all out.

Morty laces his arms tenderly around Rick’s neck, burying his face in the crook of the old man’s neck. He’s trying to ignore that strange edge he heard in Rick’s voice just now; something that sounded like… disappointment?

“That was s-stupid of them”, he mutters softly, lips close to Rick’s skin. “Nothing they c-could ever do would make me hate you, or leave you. You never h-have to worry about th-that, Rick.”

Morty feels Rick’s body tense under him, before letting out a long sigh that gives him shivers.

“They don’t know you like I do, Morty”, Rick says finally, his expression unscrutable.


	8. Chapter 8

The expression on Rick’s face now is stupid, just plain stupid, something Morty had never thought he would one day associate with his grandfather. It’s an expression that looks wrong on him, and Morty wishes he could wipe it off –preferably by punching the living daylights out of it. The old man stutters and mumbles and stumbles over his words –he’s never looked least like the genius he proclaims to be.

Morty is seething, more furious than he’s ever been in his life. His hands are balled up into fists at his sides, eyes hard and lips drawn in a taut line, looking up at Rick for an explanation. “I-it’s not w-what you th-think, Morty”, Rick is saying, and he almost wants to laugh at that.

“S-sure it’s not, Rick”, he snorts back, rolling his eyes. “I wonder from which s-shitty, shitty chick flick you s-stole that line. Real original excuse, R-Rick, works every time.”

Rick lets out a frustrated sigh and runs a hand through his hair, still avoiding looking at him.

“Look, w-will you just, just listen to me for a second? A-and, and give me back my phone?”

“Why, R-Rick?” Morty cries out. “So you c-can keep texting your booty call?”

He’s holding on tight to the scientist’s cell phone, not planning on letting go anytime soon. It’s a nifty piece of machinery able to contact people through multiple dimensions, and Morty knows how much Rick needs it to keep in touch with his various clients… among other things. But the old man’s not getting it back until Morty gets a real answer to his question: why the _hell_ was Pretty Morty’s number listed in Rick’s phone?

He’d discovered that little fact completely at random; they’d been cruising through space as they always did, heading to yet another ship in distress hoping they’d get a good loot out of their visit, when Rick’s phone had rung. He’d picked it up, exchanged a few words with one of his many alien drug dealers before swiftly hanging up; upon setting it down next to him, Morty had caught a glimpse of his own name under the contacts’ list. Normally this wouldn’t have bothered him, except that he hadn’t had a cell phone for over two years, since Rick and him had permanently left their planet behind. It’s not like he used his phone all that much when he lived on Earth: his only contacts were his parents, who insisted on calling him way too often to ask about his day or see if he wanted to go on a Sunday family outing with them (yuck). Pretty soon, Rick had been the one calling him the most –and the only one whose calls he actually bothered to answer most of the time. When they had run away from home, Rick had immediately changed his phone number as a measure of precaution, advising Morty to do the same. But Morty had done better: he’d chucked his cell phone altogether, deciding that he didn’t need one now that he’d be living with Rick (and Rick only). After all, he accompanied the scientist wherever he went at all times, and it wasn’t like anyone else would contact him. So that couldn’t be him in Rick’s contacts.

Dread had started to gnaw at his insides instantly, as he leaned over the genius’ phone to get a better look. His blood practically froze in his veins as he saw the full name: _Pretty Morty_.

It was amazing how much one little adjective could change the way he felt completely. How this one little adjective could turn him into something that was not him –this hysterical, jealous beast— something repugnant that made him want to throw up. He’d known that this was his counterpart’s nickname (everyone called him Pretty Morty, even his own Rick) but he still felt like he was looking at something secret and obscene. He could already see all the dirty and flirtatious texts exchanged between the two, as falsely sweet and blatantly sexual as the conversation between a sugar daddy and some teenage slut.

Rick had eventually looked over, just in time to see Morty’s murderous expression and the name on his phone’s screen. He’d tried to laugh it off, jokingly asking Morty what had crawled up his ass –like he didn’t even realize that anything was wrong. His expression had quickly morphed into one of alarm as Morty had grabbed the phone, stood up in front of him and started shouting.

“F-for fuck’s s-sake, Morty, I’m telling you for the last time”, Rick yelled back at him, patience wearing thin. “I don’t have any b-booty calls, Morty! I haven’t h-had any since we got together! I’m n-not cheating on you!”

“Y-you say that l-like it’s something you miss”, Morty retorts spitefully, venom dripping from his voice.

Rick throws his arms up in the air, as if begging a divinity he doesn’t believe in to give him more patience. “I d-don’t, I don’t miss it…” he exhales deeply, pinching the bridge of his nose. “L-look, Morty, c-can you please just stop being an irrational little jerk and, and j-just drop it?”

“If y-you’re not being unfaithful, then explain this!” Morty exclaims, shoving the phone in Rick’s face so he can’t escape the terrible proof.

“W-what, I’m n-not allowed to have friends anymore?” the genius asks, looking indignated.

Morty actually laughs out loud this time, the sound derisive and a little bit hysterical and anything but joyful. “Oh, you’re f-friends,” he says snidely. “Yeah, s-sure, just p-platonic friends. I-I saw the way you were c-checking him out the last time he came here, R-Rick. I’m s-sure friends stare at, at each other’s asses all the, all the time.”

Now it’s Rick’s turn to roll his eyes, mouth twisting into a bitter, cruel smirk. “Like you’d, like you’d k-know anything about what friends do anyway”, he replies.

Morty freezes where he’s standing. He never thought Rick would say something like that to him. All this time, he thought his grandfather was the only person who ever understood him, ever accepted him for how weird and alone and antisocial he was. And now they’re standing in front of each other, throwing jabs and trying to hurt the other with all they’ve got, and Rick is using that against him.

“W-what do you m-mean to say exactly, Rick?” Morty asks him in a low voice, trying to ignore the way he can hear the hurt drip from his own words. “If y-you’ve got s-something to s-say, say it c-clearly. Don’t m-make passive aggressive c-comments like some ansgty l-little bitch.”

“I mean to say, M-Morty,” Rick goes on, towering over him with an even darker expression, “that y-you don’t have any friends! I-it’s like you, you don’t even know how to make friends, how to, how to interact with other people! A-all you ever do is h-hang around me like a little lost p-puppy, l-like you have nobody else!”

“Of c-course I have nobody else, I love you!” Morty bursts out, tears rolling down his face.

There’s a short moment of silence after that, Morty sniffling pitifully and wiping his eyes with the back of his hand, Rick staring at him with a stunned look. “And y-you’re all I need, R-Rick. B-but I guess it’s n-not the same for y-you, eh.” He finishes bitterly, looking down with disgust at the phone in his hand.

Rick doesn’t say anything for a while. When he finally speaks up again, his words are slow and solemn and his eyes boring straight into Morty’s, like he desperately needs Morty to hear him and understand him. “I-I’m not f-fucking other Morties, M-Morty. Y-you gotta believe me on this one. I w-wouldn’t lie to you, Morty. T-trust me.”

Morty sighs shakily, his chest still full of sobs and pent-up anger. In the time he’s known Rick, he’s heard the scientist say those two words to him more times than he can count, and he’s never doubted him before. Right now he’s finding it hard to believe him, and yet he wants to believe him so, so bad.

“Th-then,” he chokes out, “why d-did you have his n-number in your phone?”

He doesn’t expect what Rick says next.

“I h-had his number for y-you, Morty.”

Morty’s head whips up to look at Rick, astonished. The scientist sighs again and starts explaining himself. “I w-wanted to make up t-to you, Morty. Th-that worked out pretty well”, he mutters sarcastically. “I know I… I know I h-haven’t, haven’t exactly g-given you the perfect l-life, M-Morty. Killing p-people, stealing s-stuff, g-getting tracked by the intergalactic federation… P-pretty, pretty fucking far f-from the American d-dream, ain’t it? Th-that’s probably also n-not exactly w-what you had in mind w-when you, when you agreed to r-run away with me all that t-time ago. You deserve b-better than what I g-gave you, M-Morty. I know, w-with the kind of l-life we’re leading, th-there’s not a whole lotta p-people we can t-trust out there, b-but I thought I oughta at least g-give you s-some friends. S-so your life could be, could be j-just a bit closer to that of a n-normal teenage boy. And I guess I figured, figured th-the only kind of p-person you could really r-relate to, would be another M-Morty.”

Rick falls silent. He doesn’t have that stupid, awful expression anymore, though he looks like he feels really stupid. Morty continues staring at him, taking some time to let it all sink in. He had no idea that Rick felt this way –and from the sound of it, he’d been keeping it bottled inside for a pretty long time. He didn’t know his grandfather had felt any kind of guilt for running away with him; not to mention, Rick seemed to have forgotten the fact that it was Morty who’d suggested they leave, and he’d done nothing but take him up on his offer. So it couldn’t be his fault, in any way or form; Morty had thought that that much was obvious. Apparently, it wasn’t for Rick.

And why did Rick feel bad about Morty not getting to be a normal teenage boy, anyway? He’d never been normal, not even before he’d met Rick. He’d never wanted that, and after knowing he could live a life like the one he had right now, exploring space and fighting aliens alongside the love of his life, he couldn’t even stomach the thought of returning to a normal life.

But despite all his confusion, Morty fely deeply touched; Rick had felt guilty for him, worried that he couldn’t make Morty happy. He’d obviously obsessed over it a long time and tried to provide Morty with potential friends (even though he had no desire for any). And how had Morty thanked him in response? By blowing up at him for no reason and accusing him of cheating.

The full absurdity of his behavior hits Morty like a brick to the gut and he lunges forward, literally throwing himself into Rick’s arms. Taken by surprise, the scientist barely has time to emit a muffled “w-what the—“ before they’re crashing to the floor of the spaceship, Morty’s lips pressed desperately to the oder man’s.

He kisses him for as long as he can without breathing, hard and passionate, making sure to put all his emotions into it. It takes Rick a minute to respond, but then he’s kissing him back just as hard, long arms coming up to encircle Morty’s waist as the teenager straddles him. Morty detaches his mouth from his grandfather’s, necking him and pressing kisses to his throat instead, mouthing “I’m sorry” and “I’m so sorry” everytime he comes up for air.

“M-Morty, slow down for a w-while…” Rick pants under him, cheeks flushed and eyes already half-lidded.

“I can’t,” Morty answers sincerely, hands grabbing at the off white lab coat, pulling it off Rick’s shoulders, blue sweater quickly following suit before his fingers hastily unbuckle the belt. “N-Need you now, Rick.”

His entire body feels hot all over, as if he’d been rubbed over with flames; he needs to feel close to Rick right now, as close as possible, needs to feel their connected bodies moving together and their two hearts beating in tandem. He needs to make it up to Rick, to apologize for how paranoid and cruel he’s been, for all the horrible things he’s just said to him --so, so stupid. He needs to show Rick how sorry he is, how much he loves him, needs to make him know that Morty trusts him and would put his life in the old scientist’s hands.

“I’m sorry, Rick, s-so sorry,” he whispers breathlessly, leaving a trail of wet kisses down the other man’s chest. “I’m sorry I was so m-mean, I love you R-Rick, love you s-so much.”

“I love you t-too, Morty,” Rick says in a sort of choked voice, arms laid above his head as if in surrender.

Morty finally pulls off the belt, removes Rick’s pants along with his underwear and discovers with a little surprise that the old man is only half-hard. He strokes him hard and fast with his hands, bringing him to full mast, reveling in the way Rick’s hips buck and tremble beneath him. He lets his eyes rove over every line, crease and angle of Rick’s body, the rare, barely visible freckles scattered across his slightly ashen skin; he looks at Rick intently, almost analytically, as if he’s trying to commit every last detail to his memory. He touches him too, frantically, with the same greedy frenzy as a little kid in a store --as if all the things he saw were only half-seen if he couldn’t also get his hands on them.

His fingers scramble desperately across the planes of Rick’s chest, over the line of his abs, tracing the outlines of muscles that remain surprisingly taut for a man his age. Not wasting anymore time, Morty takes off his own pants and practically impales himself on Rick’s cock, moaning out loud as he feels the inches brutally stretch him open.

“Aah, f-fuck…” Rick groans. “M-Morty, you s-son of a bitch…”

“I love you, R-Rick,” Morty repeats, starting to bounce up and down on the scientist’s cock. “W-want you to come inside me, Rick.”

He picks up the pace, grinding unto Rick, riding him mercilessly. He knows how badly he just behaved, knows how crazy he sounded. He fucked up and this is his way of making amends, of showing Rick how much he cares for him, how much he needs him. He’s going to make up for his big freak out, he’s going to make this so good for Rick he’ll see fucking stars.

“Morty… Aah… Hhngh, s-shit…,” Rick breathes out between gritted teeth, eyes rolling into the back of his head.

“F-fuck me, granddaddy,” Morty grunts above him, bringing out the dirty talk because he knows the genius enjoys it. “Feel s-so good inside of m-me, so hard and thick. Need to f-feel you come inside me, grandpa, f-fill me up.”

It’s working; he can hear Rick panting louder under him, feels his hips thrusting more erratically into him. It’s almost painful but Morty doesn’t care, needs to feel as much as Rick can give him even if it hurts. He loves the idea that he’ll be able to feel this for days, maybe even for weeks; the pull and twitch of his muscles will remind him of how Rick, his Rick, was inside him.

“Y-you’re a d-dirty slut, Morty,” Rick is grunting. “S-such a little slut for m-me.”

“Hmm, y-yeah, you like that, grandpa?” Morty pants, firmly guiding Rick’s hands to his ass cheeks. Dirty talk’s not his strong suit, and he’s not used to being this straightforward during sex, but he knows that’s what needs to be done right now. He rocks back on Rick’s cock, feeling a tight pull in his balls that tells him he’s close. “Like to f-fuck your own grandson? You like s-slamming your cock into my tight little ass?”

Something changes suddenly: a new gleam flashes in Rick’s eyes, his jaw tightening imperceptibly. His face goes blank and he’s pumping himself full force into Morty, hands roughly grabbing his ass. The teenager nearly falls over with the unexpected change of pace: he arches his back and cries out, unable to do anything but sob and moan as great waves of pleasure wrack his whole frame.

When he opens his eyes again, he’s startled by the expression on his lover’s face: Rick’s eyes are wide open but it’s not him he’s looking at; it feels like the old man is looking past him, staring beyond into the vast expanse of space filled with things unseen. Morty’s almost disturbed by this, reaching his hand up to cradle the man’s face, but it doesn’t bring Rick back to the moment --back to him.

They’ve had rough sex plenty of times before, but this is different somehow. Rick looks desperate as he thrusts into him, like it’s the first and last time he’ll ever make love to him, and for the first time in a long while it actually hurts, enough for him to cry out. He feels like Rick is pushing all of himself into his body, stabbing into him repeatedly with his cock, fast and unforgiving and ruthless. It’s a way of fucking that tells him Rick has relinquished everything, surrendered everything, left all morals and doubts and regrets behind, focusing only on the way Morty feels around him. It’s a way of making love that just screams _fuck it all_ , and Morty can’t reply anything besides _yes, yes, yes_.

It’s too much for him; in a matter of seconds he’s coming harder than ever before in his life, screaming his lungs out, his walls clenching tightly as Rick releases inside him with a long, satisfied groan. He collapses above Rick, feeling like every bone in his body has gone limp. He can feel his lover’s heartbeat thundering away under him; he cranes his head up to smile at him, only to find Rick staring up at the ceiling. He doesn’t smile back, doesn’t even look at him. The genius’ pale blue eyes stay trained on the space right above his body; they don’t look mad, or regretful. They just look empty.

Figuring that the genius must be tired after such a workout, Morty quickly removes his shirt and balls it up into a makeshift pillow, which he carefully slides under Rick’s head before curling back against his chest, satiated and content.

Just as Rick starts snoring lightly, he catches sight of the forgotten cellphone out the corner of his eye. The screen still displays the contacts list, Pretty Morty’s number staring right back at him.

Morty takes the phone in his hand, lazily presses a few buttons. _Delete contact?_ it asks him.

Morty hesitates, looks back at Rick’s peaceful, sleeping face. _No_ , his fingers press determinedly.

He wants to trust Rick; he can trust him.


	9. Chapter 9

On some days Rick’s just too drunk to be trusted with anything.

Today is one of these days, Morty realizes tiredly as he finishes buckling his grandfather into the passenger seat and takes his place behind the steering wheel. He wonders if something bad happened recently and the scientist is keeping it away from him. There must be some kind of explanation for the way his grandfather has been acting for the past few weeks; since the beginning of this month, really. Rick’s been acting sulky and moody, sometimes not speaking a word for several days on end. He doesn’t eat much, just lounges in his chair all day and suckles his flask like a newborn baby. He’s been going out more to places he says were “too risky” for Morty to come with him, and when he returns it’s always hours later, completely smashed or high (or possibly both). When Morty questions him, he conveniently starts snoring.

Even when he stays in the spaceship with Morty, he does remarkably little: he sleeps away half the day and drinks heavily, much more than what Morty’s accustomed to seeing him drink, which is saying something. The old man had explained to him once that it was in his blood: the Sanchez family were just the kind of people who saw no problem with taking the wheel after pouring a gallon of whisky down their throat. But today, when Rick had stumbled out of a portal in the middle of the spaceship and literally fallen face down onto the floor, Morty had immediately known that it was best not to let him drive.

As he navigates them through space in silence, Morty can’t help but let his mind wander. Where is Rick going every time he leaves the ship? In what kind of dingy intergalactic pub or nightclub does he get so numbingly drunk? Why does he insist that Morty stays behind every time? Because he knows he wouldn’t approve of it? What if he’s seeing other people there, other aliens? Other Morties?

Morty tightens his grip on the wheel, eyebrows furrowing. He’d thought he was past that particular jealousy crisis. If something like this had happened just a few weeks earlier, he would have blown up in Rick’s face, confronted him about everything; but he remembers how hysterical and irrational he got over one little phone number --all the wrongful accusations he’d heaped on Rick’s head-- and he doesn’t want to go crazy again over something that could be nothing. More than anything he’s just worried about Rick, because the man is obviously in a bad place right now: he needs Morty’s help and support, not his insecurity and jealous outbursts.

He’s trying to trust Rick, trying really really hard but it’s difficult, especially when he’s been acting so distant and withdrawn lately. Could Morty have done something to upset him? Then why wouldn’t have Rick just told him so? He wasn’t the type to hold a grudge in silence and just sulk at the other person until they telepathically figured out what they did wrong: if Morty had done a stupid thing, he would’ve blown up at him immediately. It must be something else, then, but Morty can’t for the life of him figure out what could affect Rick so much he’d feel compelled to drink himself into a stupor every night. The old man used to at least have an inkling of his own limits, but now he drinks as if to push those limits away and tear them to shreds; Morty can’t even count the times he’s had to clean Rick’s vomit off his unconscious body in the past week. For God’s sake, he’s already started searching the intergalactic black market for a replacement human kidney.

It’s gross and disgraceful and maddening at times, but Morty’s ready to do anything he can to help him. Nevertheless, Rick’s not really letting himself be helped: it’s starting to feel like he’s pushing Morty away and it terrifies him.

Suddenly Rick makes a small, weak noise next to him, like he’s attempting to wake up but he’s not quite getting there. Morty puts the ship on autopilot and is immediately at his side, gently cradling his head, nudging the garbage can closer with his foot in case Rick needs to throw up.

“W-what is it, R-Rick?” he asks him tenderly, keeping the volume of his voice barely above a whisper. “Are y-you feeling b-better? D-do you need anything? I can get you water or--”

“M-Morty,” Rick says, looking at him with eyes that seem unusually steady for someone that drunk.

“Y-yes, Rick? I-I’m right here.”

“Do you, do you k-know what month it is, M-Morty?”

Morty blinks. What did it matter what month it was? Time eventually starts to blend together when you’re living in space, never staying in the same dimension for long. He stutters and splutters for a while, but Rick grabs his hand and squeezes it in a death grip, still looking at him like this is the single most serious matter they will ever discuss. So Morty wracks his memory and eventually answers, “F-February?”

Ricks nods once, very solemnly. “Th-that’s right, Morty, i-it’s February. N-now, do you know w-what day it is?”

Morty concentrates again, but his mind offers nothing. Rick is still looking at him intently and he’s starting to get a little frustrated now. Who even cares what day it is today? Rick leaves him by himself to go party God-knows-where for days on end, then practically ignores him when he gets back, and now that he’s finally talking to him with more than burps and grunts it’s to ask about the date?!

“I-I have no idea, R-Rick,” he replies. “A-and I don’t r-really get why this is s-so important to you, but…”

“It’s the s-second,” Rick cuts in, stifling burp. Even his burps have been sounding melancholy lately. “Th-the second of February, M-Morty. Only twenty more days to go.”

Morty is really frustrated now. He has no idea what Rick is talking about or what the date has to do with anything, and he has a half a mind to grab the old man’s shoulders and shake some sense into him.

Before he can finish that thought though, Rick’s face turns a nauseating shade of green and he lurches forward. Sighing, Morty grabs the garbage can at his feet and shoves it in his grandfather’s lap, just in time for the scientist to unload the contents of his stomach in it.

As he waits for Rick to finish heaving, the genius’ cell phone starts ringing. Knowing that his grandfather is in no shape to answer any calls right now, Morty fishes the phone out of his lab coat pocket and attempts to decline the call. His fingers get mixed up and he inadvertently presses the answering button, and before he knows it, a Rick’s voice is blaring at him from the other end.

“Hello?!” the man is shouting at him, and Morty thinks with annoyance that he must not quite understand the purpose of a phone. “H312 Rick? Hellooooo? Answer me, I know you’re there, y-you lazy sack o’ shit.”

Morty presses the phone against his ear and walks away from the heaving noises his Rick is still making. “H312 Rick c-can’t answer his p-phone right now. What are you calling for?”

“C-can’t answer his phone?” the other Rick echoes grumpily. “What’s he doing?”

“Puking his g-guts into a bucket.”

“Heh, sounds like him. S-so listen, this is Rick from dimension C137, I-I’m kinda H312’s dealer. W-well, one of his dealers anyway. When he’s done being hungover, could you, could you tell him I c-called to say the K-lax shipment is ready?”

“S-sure thing,” Morty says, ready to hang up and go check on Rick, who’s still holding his bucket close like it’s the most precious thing in the world for him.

But the Rick on the other end is still talking, his voice slightly curious now.

“S-so what are y-you anyway, some kind of, of underage Rick or something?” he asks.

Morty’s brain stills. Did that guy --that Rick-- think _he_ was a Rick?!

“What?” he says, quite intelligently.

“W-well, your voice sounds a lot y-younger than most Ricks I’ve known. Almost like a M-Morty, heh.”

“I am a Morty,” Morty answers cautiously, still dumbfounded.

There’s a pause on the other end, followed by incredulous laughter. “You’re s-serious?” C137 Rick asks, still not sounding absolutely convinced. “Fuck, I could’ve sworn I was t-talking to a Rick… M-man, H312 must b-be lucky to have a Morty like y-you, huh?”

Morty’es eyes dart back to his Rick, still crouched over in his seat. He’s no longer throwing up, eyes closed and chin resting against his chest, he looks like he’s about to fall asleep any second now. Morty’s eyes soften at the sight. “Yes, he is,” he replies quietly. “W-well, I better get b-back to him now. Nice t-talking to you, C137.”

Not waiting for the other Rick’s reply, Morty hangs up and walks into the tiny storage room, getting out a blanket and some aspirin. He gets back into the cockpit and covers Rick with the blanket, making sure to get none of the vomit on it. He sets the bottle of aspirin on the dashboard, at hand’s reach for the hungover scientist. He should probably get some shut-eye too, get rested and prepared for tomorrow’s long day of taking care of Rick’s hangover and worrying about him when he inevitably goes out again. But as he closes his eyes, he finds himself unable to turn off his thoughts. C137’s words are still ringing in his head. _I could’ve sworn I was talking to a Rick,_ he’d said.

Rick starts snoring loudly beside him, a noise that most would find obnoxious and overbearing; Morty usually finds it relaxing. It fails to soothe him tonight: he’s too worked up, mind too bundled into knots at the idea of what could be messing with Rick’s head so much.

Not so long ago, he would have been beyond thrilled at being mistaken for a Rick. But now he barely feels anything: a twinge of surprise in the pit of his gut, at best.

 


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fair warning: darkness ahead (and a tiny little bit of gore too). This is NOT a happy chapter. But hey, you knew this story wasn't going to have a happy ending anyway. Enjoy!

There's a knot in Morty's guts that hasn't been loosened in weeks. He does his best to ignore it as he steps out from the portal into Rick and his spaceship, a heavy bag of groceries from the closest alien supermarket in his hand. "H-hey, Rick," he calls out softly. "I'm back. A-are you feeling any b-better?" 

He'd hoped that Rick's strange mood was just a passing fancy that he'd just shake off after a while. It hadn't been the case. Instead, Rick had only gotten worse day by day. The floor of the spaceship was now littered with bottles of liquor --apparently the scientist's thirst could no longer be quenched by the very small amount he could keep in his flask at all times. A few days earlier, he'd started to develop a bad cough, and Morty had struggled in vain to keep the alcohol away from him. He'd soon given up on that; without liquor, Rick became restless and fidgety and more often than not just ended up sneaking off to somewhere "too dangerous" to get plastered. When Morty reluctantly let him drink in the spaceship, he could at least keep an eye on him. 

His mood worsened along with the sickness and gargantuan consumption of alcohol. Rick barely even spoke to him anymore; he let him drive most of the time, content to curl up on himself in the passenger seat, his fingers twiddling with something that he never let Morty see, and his eyes staring vacantly into space through a bleary, pale pink film of drunkenness. When he did speak, it was always to ask Morty what day it was; he suddenly seemed hellbent on knowing the exact date at all times, something he had never really preoccupied himself with before. When Morty hesitated or found no answer, Rick huffed a sigh and mumbled incoherently --there was a frantic gleam in his eye that was concerning to say the least, but he usually left it at that. One day, after returning from another dimension with a buck load of fresh new bottles, Rick had also brought back a brand new Earth calendar; he'd propped it on the dashboard of the ship and diligently checked off the days as they passed, without ever offering Morty an explanation for this strange behavior.

So the past few days had been quite a strain on Morty. He resists the temptation to sigh when he gets no answer from Rick, as he has come to expect now. The scientist is sprawled on the passenger seat, the top of his pale blue hair peeking out from the headrest. There are no snoring noises; he doesn't seem to be asleep. The silence in the ship is one that Morty has learned to associate with his grandfather's occasional (but more and more frequent) bouts of gloominess. The old man shuffles lazily in his chair and Morty notices that he seems to be holding something in his hands, shoulders hunched over and head bent downwards in melancholy concentration. 

"I b-brought crackers and soup f-for you, i-if you're hungry," Morty continues, putting the bags away for now --anything he says now will probably be ignored any way, he thinks tiredly, but that doesn't stop him from trying. "R-Rick? W-what are you looking at?" 

As he walks closer, Morty sees what Rick is holding so tightly in his hand: it’s an old crumpled up photograph of his parents, Summer, Rick and himself. The picture was taken about two years ago, shortly after Morty had first met his grandfather; Beth had insisted the whole family go out to the mall during the week of Christmas, as a family outing. They’re all smiling in the photograph, dressed in large thick coats and huddled closely together for warmth. His parents look happy for once, Summer managing to get off her phone just long enough to smile at the camera; Rick looks as exuberant as always, wrapped up in a bright blue windbreaker, his arm around Morty’s shoulders.

Morty frowns; he’d completely forgotten about this picture. So that was the mysterious thing that Rick had been so engrossed with. But what reason could he have for digging up such a picture?  It seemed like it was something that belonged in the distant past now, a vestige from a time long gone. It was only two years ago, but so much had changed during those two years…

“W-What’s the matter, Rick?” he asks, stepping closer to the scientist. “Why are y-you looking at… Th-that picture?”

Rick bursts out laughing; it sounds long and drawn-out and painful, like a very weak, very old animal struggling to breathe.

“Haa… N-no reason at all, M-Morty,” he replies, hand reaching for a half-full bottle on the floor. “J-just… Just feeling a b-bit nostalgic is, is all. Just a-an old man… Reminiscing b-bout the… Bout the good ol’ times.”

He tries laughing again, but the laughter turns into a harsh, dry cough that wracks his frame until he’s hunched over his seat, hand balled into a fist and holding his stomach. Morty’s blood runs cold; he feels like he’s going to be sick.

“R-Rick,” he says, trying to sound collected. “Y-you should stop drinking s-so much; you’re sick and…”

“And w-what, Morty?” Rick barks, getting up to his full height, balance still a little shaky. “And old? I-is that, that what you were about to say, M-Morty? That I’m j-just an old, s-sick, pathetic little man? Huh?!”

“N-no!” Morty cries, desperately trying to grab the goddamned flask from Rick’s hand. “I’m j-just worried about y-you! You shouldn’t be d-drinking so much when you’re s-so ill! I-It’s putting you into a-all kinds of weird, depressing moods…”

Rick snorts, dismisses Morty with a disdainful wave of his hand as if chasing away a pesky fly. “Y-you think I’m g-getting in this weird mood, as you call it, b-because I’m drunk, M-Morty?” he says glumly. “Y-you’ve got it all wrong, Morty. That’s the p-part of me that’s still sober.” He raises the flask to his lips again, takes another deep gulp. “Waaaayyy too s-sober.”

“Then it’s th-that stupid photograph,” Morty retorts firmly. “L-looking at it is w-what’s making you act so… s-so crappy lately! Well I’ve h-had enough, R-Rick, give it t-to me!”

Rick raises a brow at him, looking completely and utterly unimpressed at his sudden outburst. Nevertheless, his long fingers curl around the edges of the old photograph, holding onto it tightly. “F-fuck, what’s your problem, M-Morty?” he mutters, turning away from the boy and burying his head in his arms. “I-I thought I w-was the one being a moody prick here…”

Morty’s had enough. He plants himself solidly in front of Rick, hands on his hips. “Y-you know what, Rick? You’re r-right. You’re the one b-being an asshole right now. I-In fact, you’re the one being a-an asshole all the fucking time! A-and I’ve t-tried to be u-understanding, Rick, I’ve tried to b-be useful and, and supportive as much as I could, b-but you’ve just been impossible to live with f-for the past month! You’ve b-been getting blackout d-drunk every, every fricking day, coming home w-whenever you damn well please, n-not giving a fuck th-that I’m up being worried sick about you! D-does that mean nothing to you, R-Rick? And w-what the hell is up w-with you checking the date all the goddamn time, huh?” Morty goes on, throwing his hands in the air in frustration, unable to stop now that he’s started. “I-I really don’t get it, Rick! Is th-that what y-you’ve been so pissy about? I-Is that why you’ve been acting like such a jerk? Is it, is it y-your birthday soon or s-something, did I forget y-your fucking birthday, is that w-what this has all been about? What the f-fuck is wrong with you, Rick?”

Morty is out of breath by the time he’s done unloading all his rage and anguish, panting hard as he keeps staring at Rick. The old man is looking at him differently now, no longer haughty and indifferent; instead, there’s an unreadable but piercing look in his eye; he’s staring at Morty like he’s preparing to shoot an arrow straight into his heart.

“Y-you almost got it, Morty,” he says finally, voice quiet and almost thoughtful. “It’s the t-twenty second today. I-It is someone’s b-birthday. But it’s not mine. It’s Beth’s.”

Morty feels like his heart just dropped to the level of his feet. A rush of conflicting emotions swirl around in his head, making him dizzy on his feet. On the one hand, he’s relieved --almost happy-- to finally know the reason behind Rick’s insufferable behavior. He’s surprised and immensely glad that it apparently wasn’t caused by anything he did. But at the same time, he feels the familiar pinch of jealousy pulling at his heartstrings again --jealousy at _Beth_ , of all people-- at the thought that someone else, someone that’s not _him_ , is able to affect Rick this much and cause him so much inner turmoil.

He can’t help but wonder; has Rick ever been so unhappy because of something _he_ ’s said or done? Had he ever cried for _him_ , drunk himself to oblivion for his sake? Not that he remembered. Was it because Morty always did his very best to keep Rick as happy as possible (he’d always believed that was the case), or was it simply because Morty didn’t have enough power over Rick to make him feel so strongly? Maybe it was because Rick just didn’t care enough to become completely depressed over him.

Rick had always told him he meant the world to him; he’d said he loved Morty, loved him more than anything else in the world, thought he was the most perfect thing he’d ever laid eyes on. That was how much Rick loved him, that was how special their relationship was. Yet the old man cared enough about _Beth_ , apparently loved her so much that the very memory of her birthday --her stupid birthday, a day like any other in the calendar-- could reduce him to a wreck of a man.

All these emotions boil down to one unified, much simpler feeling: rage. Maybe it’s the stress, maybe it’s the frustration of having had to deal with Rick’s shit for so long without even knowing why, maybe it’s just his way of dealing with problems now, but it seems like rage has become his knee-jerk reaction to everything life throws at him. So when life shows him the sight of the man he loves, inexplicably inconsolable over the memory of someone that isn’t him, he throws all of his rage right back at Rick.

“Seriously?!” Morty starts screaming. “H-her birthday? Her b-birthday is w-what’s gotten you so fucked up? I’ve b-been worrying and w-worrying about what I could have d-done or, or what I c-could’ve said to put you in such a state… Then it t-turns out it’s something as stupid as B-Beth’s birthday?!”

A flash of anger shines in Rick’s eyes as the scientist kicks his chair back and stands up, towering menacingly over Morty.

“Well I-I’m sorry to t-tell you this, M-Morty, but the fucking universe d-doesn’t always revolve around your pathetic self!” the old man bellows, suddenly looking much more alert and conscious than a few seconds earlier. “N-not everything happens because of s-something you did, or s-something you said! You’re not at the c-center of the world, M-Morty!”

Morty stand shis ground, eyebrows furrowed and biting the inside of his cheeks, trying not to show how scared he gets every time Ricks gets angry at him. “W-what’s that supposed to mean, R-Rick?” he retorts, not quite managing to stifle the quiver in his voice.

“Since you’re too s-stupid to figure it out y-yourself, Morty,” Rick sneers, eyes narrowed, “I g-guess I’ll explain it t-to you. It m-means that people think about other th-things besides you, people c-care about other things besides you, and th-there are things that p-people feel that a f-fucking sociopath l-like you would never understand!”

Out of anger, he kicks into the dashboard, cursing loudly in the process.

Morty curls his fingers in his pockets, eyes full of unshed tears.

“A-are you c-calling me a s-sociopath, Rick?” he asks bitterly, making it a point to keep his glare steady.

“I-I’m calling you worse than that, M-Morty! H-hell, at least a sociopath cares about other people; at least he, he cares about his own f-fucking family! Y-you’re not a a sociopath, morty, you’re, you’re barely a h-human being: you’re as good as dead inside, M-Morty, if you don’t g-get that a man could miss his own daughter on her birthday!”

Morty shatters inside; he feels like the entire universe just crumbled and crashed over his head. Rick has been angry at him before, and they’ve had pretty vicious fights, but it’s never been like this; he’s never heard Rick say such words to him. His chest is so full he can’t breathe; everything in front of his eyes looks blurry and lopsided, he can hear his own heartbeat in his ears, way too loud, way louder than everything else.

“Y-you don’t mean th-that,” Morty says, his tongue feeling numb. “You’re j-just saying th-that to hurt me b-because of how crappy you feel.”

“W-what do you k-know about how I feel, Morty? I m-may be drunk, and in a s-shitty mood, but that doesn’t mean I d-don’t say it like it is. Y-you’re not n-normal, Morty. You, you’re a creepy little freak and the w-worst part is, y-you don’t even r-realize that th-there’s something seriously wrong with you.”

Each of Rick’s words drops into his mind like a huge stone in ice cold water. It stings and burns him, and he decides he’s not just going to stand there and let Rick talk to him this way.

“W-what, Rick, s-so just because I didn’t remember my m-mother’s birthday, I’m a, I’m a fucking m-mistake of nature?” he scoffs at the scientist. “Just b-because I’m n-not getting blind drunk and letting myself b-become a pathetic old f-fool like you, m-means there’s something wrong with me? L-look at yourself, R-Rick; you haven’t been sober in w-weeks. The only reason you h-haven’t been sleeping in clothes soaked with your own v-vomit and piss is b-because your grandson c-changes you every two hours. O-or should I j-just order some d-diapers for you?”

“O-oh, so y-you think your old g-grandpa’s disgusting, h-huh? C-can’t handle a little piss and p-puke on your hands, can you? Maaaan, you’d do g-great in a retirement h-home. Maybe y-you should h-have thought about th-that, you know, th-thought about all the l-logistics before forcing me to g-go on the run with you. B-but it’s t-too late now, you little shit, c-cause now we’re stuck h-here with each other and y-you’ll have to c-change my clothes and w-wipe my old man’s ass u-until one of us c-croaks!”

“I d-didn’t force you to go on the r-run with me, Rick!” Morty shrieks, outraged by the old man’s accusations. “I s-suggested it, and you agreed! You took r-responsability for that, R-Rick, don’t you d-dare blame it all on me! I-If you didn’t think it was a g-good idea at the time, you c-could’ve said no!”

“Yeeeaaaah, r-right, I c-could’ve said no. Rich of you to say this now, M-Morty. N-nice way to put all the blame on g-grandpa, huh? You w-were perfectly aware that I was in n-no condition to make any k-kind of decision, I was, was drunk off my ass and…”

“Oh, d-don’t try that excuse. Y-you think you c-can fool me with that, Rick? You m-make half of your decisions while completely hammered!”

“Th-the point is, I d-didn’t know w-what I was doing, M-Morty! Y-your parents barged in and started screaming a-and I panicked and then I shot th-them and w-we had to come up with a solution quick… You s-sneaky little m-motherfucker, you, you saw I was f-freaking out and knew I’d say yes to a-anything, s-so you just w-waltzed in with your magical s-solution, k-knowing that I’d agree, a-and now we’e stranded in space, living like a bunch of fucking f-fugitives, and y-you’ve got me riiiight w-where yu want me, j-just as planned, heh Morty?”

“You think I want th-this, Rick? You think I’m h-happy like this, seeing y-you fuck our lives up a l-little more every day, f-fucking yourself up and n-not giving a crap about where that’s gonna l-leave me? I d-don’t care if you’re still f-feeling guilty b-because you think you abandoned your family or s-something like that, just don’t m-make it sound like I’m the o-one who took advantage of you!”

“W-what the fuck, Morty, do you even r-realize how fucked up that sounds? W-what, an underage t-teenager seduces his grandfather and k-kidnaps him? I’m the g-grownup here, I’m the one w-who has to deal with b-being the bad guy! Y-you don’t know w-what it’s like to know you came b-back to check up on your b-baby girl after twenty years, only to fuck her son and w-walk out on her again!”

“Why are y-you talking about her again?” Morty screams, voice hysterical with uncontrollable jealousy. “W-who cares about how you t-treated her?! W-who do you l-love, Rick, her or m-me?”

“W-who do I love… Shit, th-this is messed up,” Rick sighs suddenly, turning away from him and running his hand over his face in exhaustion. “Y-you’re asking m-me to choose between you and your own mother, Morty, th-this is fucked up, even f-for us.”

“Who do you love, m-me or Beth?” Morty shrieks again.

“She’s m-my _daughter_ , Morty!” Rick exclaims, looking at him as if he were crazy. “I-I can’t not love her!”

Morty’s insides turn to ice instantly. He takes a deep breath, crossing his arms across his chest.

“So w-what, have you fucked her too?” he asks, voice biting and cruel.

Rick’s jaw drops, his face looking equal parts disgusted and astounded that Morty would even suggest such a thing.

“Of course not, y-you sick son of a bitch, she’s m-my daughter!” he roars.

“And m-my mother,” Morty adds defiantly. “And I’m your grandson, R-Rick. How m-many times did you fuck me? How many times did you c-come inside me, Rick, o-or let me suck your dick? If y-you’ve fucked your grandson, w-why the hell not your own d-daughter, too? W-what’s the big f-fucking difference, huh? Why not Jerry? O-or Summer--”

He’s cut off in the middle of the sentence as Rick grabs him by the neck and slams him against the spaceship’s window, fingernails biting into the skin of his throat. Rick’s face looks inhuman with pure fury, his teeth showing and gnashing like a wild panther’s, breath coming in short, harsh pants. His grip is so strong Morty feels like his neck is about to snap off, vertebrae reduced to dust under Rick’s knuckles.

“Because I’m not some kind of gross, motherfucking p-pervert rapist, M-Morty,” he snarls in the boy’s face. “If I were, I’d h-have done th-things to you that you couldn’t even imagine in your darkest nightmares. I w-wouldn’t have waited to be seduced by you, Morty. I’d have g-grabbed you the minute i saw you, I’d have slammed your ass until you bled and thrown you in th-the nearest ditch I could find. W-would’ve been a whole lot easier than all the c-crap I’ve had to put up with, Morty, wouldn’t have had to d-deal with all your clinginess and f-following me around l-like a pathetic little puppy. W-would’ve been a lot m-more fun too, but that’s not what happened, is it? S-so next time you wanna call me a disgusting, immoral creep, think about how lucky you are to be wrong.”

He finally lets go, and Morty falls to the ground, coughing and retching until his eyes go watery. The teenager rubs at his throat as he takes in deep, desperate gulps of air, glaring at the scientist in front of him.

“S-so you’re saying you r-regret it all, huh R-Rick?” he asks, voice breathless but full of spite. “W-wish you’d just r-raped me and d-dumped by body in a dumpster? You wish you d-didn’t have s-such a, such a “pathetic little p-puppy” to follow y-you around everywhere, clinging to you, watching your b-back, protecting you a-and saving your ass?”

Rick slumps down into the driver’s seat, letting out a joyless chuckle. “D-don’t get all philanthropic on me, M-Morty,” he retorts. “A-all those times you saved me, it w-wasn’t for my sake. It was so you could drag me b-back here and k-keep using me as your own personal toy.”

Morty feels his eyes fill up with burning, salty tears. All those times he’d been so cautious to watch out for enemies, all these people and aliens he’d shot down or blown up in cold blood, for Rick’s sake. All those times he stole and killed and lied, just hoping that he could be useful to Rick in some way, and that he’d be grateful to him. And after everything he’s done, after going to hell and back just to make the old man proud, all Rick has to say to him is that he’s a selfish prick.

His shoulders shake violently as he starts to weep, his chest feeling positively smothered in despair and anguish.

“R-Rick,” he croaks out, hand still twitching in a last attempt to reach him, “you have no idea how much I love you, d-do you?”

The scientist huffs a sigh, makes a special effort not to look at him. He’s got one hand loosely wrapped around the steering wheel and keeps his eyes on the emptiness before them. It makes Morty feel like a bratty child being ignored on a road trip.

“You d-don’t have a clue w-what love is, Morty,” he tells him. “You’re not c-capable of loving anything b-besides yourself and, and your c-creepy little stuffed animals.”

There’s something about the way Rick says this, something hollow and dead that tells him Rick isn’t lying or trying to get him back. The wild anger has dissipated. And if Rick isn’t saying this because he’s mad at Morty …

...Then he’s saying it because he really believes it.

Something snaps inside of Morty. He gets up on his feet and launches himself like a bullet against Rick, shoving the scientist to the floor and knocking the wind out of his lungs.

“Shut up! Shut up! Shut up!” he cries repeatedly, and he knows he’s acting completely insane but he can’t stop himself. “T-take that back! Take that back right now!”

Before he has time to process it, his fist makes contact with Rick’s face, hitting the old man square in the nose. He barely has time to hear a sickening crunch, the sound of bones being cracked open, before he punches him again, across the jaw this time. “F-fuck you! Fuck you! Fuck you!” he’s screaming, words barely distinguishable from his sobs. He punches Rick again, sending a few teeth flying. The scientist is struggling under him now, trying to shield his face from Morty’s blows but it’s not easy when the boy’s strength seems to have quadrupled from anger and heartbreak. Morty feels his grandfather’s bony knees and legs attempt to kick at his stomach and shin, but he ignores the feeble hits, focuses instead on dealing as much pain as he can to Rick. He doesn’t think, can’t think right now; he only knows Rick hurt him like he’s never been hurt before by anyone or anything bad that’s ever happened in his life, and now all that matters is to make Rick _sorry_ , pay him back for all the pain he’s given him, even out the score so that maybe, maybe things can go back to the way they were before.

His eyes are too blurred by tears to see properly, and so he doesn’t notice that Rick has stretched out his arm just enough to seize the fallen whisky bottle he was drinking out of. He only stops punching when the scientist clobbers him in the face with the bottle, sending him face first into the ship’s dashboard as glass explodes in his eye.

“Oh, f-fuck,” he hears Rick’s voice mutter behind him. “Shit, shit, M-Morty. Morty, you okay b-buddy? Shit, I-I’m sorry, I d-didn’t mean to do th-that, got carried away... “

Morty doesn’t move. There’s a blinding, throbbing pain in his right eye and he feels a sensation of wetness that isn’t tears.

Rick scrambles to his knees and rushes to his side, taking him by the shoulders and gently turning his body so he can assess the damage. “Fuck,” the old man gasps as he sees his face. “O-oh my god, M-Morty, I’m so sor--”

Morty places his hands on each side of his grandfather’s head, holding him in a vice-like grip so there’s no chance of him escaping; using Rick’s momentary surprise to his advantage, he roughly spins them around and violently slams his head down on the dashboard. He does it again, and again, and again; it’s like he’s no longer in control of his own body. The boiling rage inside him --after being temporarily numbed by the pain from his injury-- has come back full force, so powerful that it spills out of his body and fills the space around Morty. He’s no longer himself, no longer just a lanky, fragile-looking teenage boy: he’s the unstoppable, unforgiving force bringing Rick’s head against the dashboard. He’s the dirty floor shivering from the exquisite delight of being splattered with Rick’s blood. He’s the earth-shattering violence of Rick’s cranium erupting into millions of little bits of bone. He’s the air around them getting stuffier, heavy with the stench of murder. He is the life and soul steadily leaking out of Rick’s brain --the most intelligent brain of all universes, across all dimensions-- as it oozes from his head like pus.

After what feels like an eternity, Morty’s hands slide down from the scientist’s head, making a squishy, slippery sound as they do. Morty lets himself drop into the chair, breathing hard. Rick is unmoving, body half slumped against the dashboard in what looks like a very uncomfortable position. His neck is bent at an awkward angle, probably broken. His eyes are wide open in fear, a large, jagged wound running across one of them and dripping blood down his cheek. His mouth is also open, lips slightly apart and teeth visible, petrified in a horrified grimace. Morty avoids looking at him: Rick’s expression reminds him of a scene in a horror movie, frozen at the most suspenseful moment. It looks vaguely comical, but mostly cringeworthy.

Morty touches a hand to his chest, feeling his heartbeat slowly return to normal. His vision is focused again --at least in his left eye-- the colors looking almost painfully bright. He’s surprised to see so much blood on the floor. His right eye seems to have gone completely blind, but at least the pain has subsided a little.

It takes him a few moments to fully realize what he has done. When he does, a heavy feeling of dread settles in the pit of his stomach, quickly followed by sheer panic. Morty knows what his usual reaction would be in scary situations: turn to Rick. Seeing as this is now out of the question, he doesn’t have a clue what he’s supposed to do. What has he done?

“Oh my god,” he says out loud, his voice sounding strange and foreign to his own ears, like he’s hearing a recording of himself. He doesn’t even believe in God. It doesn’t make sense, and in the empty silence that answers him, disturbed only by a grossly thick dripping noise, he starts feeling stupider by the second. The panic seems to be expanding in his chest, crushing all his internal organs. His stomach is tying itself into knots, twisting and churning until a wave of nausea hits him hard in the gut, and Morty snaps open the emergency exit door, bends over and throws up the contents of his stomach into space.

The bile runs dry after a while, but the nausea remains and he’s left dry-heaving, coughing and choking on his own saliva. When his stomach eventually settles, he closes the exit door and half-sits, half-lies down with his back against the wall. A cold sweat drips down his forehead; his hair is damp with perspiration.

His whole life is flashing before his eyes in reverse; he’d laugh at how cliché it is, if he didn’t feel like laughing would make him hurl again.

Every little memory pops up in his mind with startling clarity, first the more recent ones, then the older ones dating years back. He closes his eyes, almost expecting to be taken back to the moment of his birth: he expects to see a bright flashing neon light, coming face to face with the surgical mask of a doctor picking him up in his arms.

Instead he’s taken back to his first meeting with Rick, three years ago, back in his old bedroom filled with all his taxidermied sparrows and the one, wise-looking squirrel. He remembers the first time he saw Rick --eyes clear and piercing like cut glass-- how he’d instantly been drawn to the old man. He remembers how interested Rick had seemed in him and his hobby, instead of looking weirded out and vaguely disgusted like everyone else. 

Then, from the very beginning, Morty’s mind jumps to the very end: Rick’s expression cold and stern, eyes avoiding him.

_You’re not capable of loving anything besides yourself and your creepy little stuffed animals._

Morty’s lips tighten into a thin line. He squares his shoulders and gets on his feet, albeit a bit shakily. He’s got a plan, and, looking at the mess of blood and brains around the ship, he knows what he needs to do first --even though he’s not gonna like it.

Taking a deep breath to steady his nerves, he gingerly fishes Rick’s cell phone out of his lab coat and dials a number with twitching fingers.

“Hey. It’s me. Do you have a minute? I need your help with something.”

 


	11. Chapter 11

"Alright then. I'll be expecting you in five minutes. Don't make me wait." 

Morty ends the call and slips the phone back in his own pocket. As he searches through Rick’s lab coat for the scientist’s laser gun, he catches a glimpse of his reflection in the reinforced plexiglas window and freezes. He looks frightening. His right eye has been reduced to a bloody pulp; a mess of red and pinkish goo has dripped halfway down to his chin, already starting to crust. Morty cautiously touches his hand to the swollen, bleeding flesh, only to find that he doesn’t feel a thing. The rest of his face is unusually pale, his left eye glistening darkly with a feverish glint.

Morty forces himself to look away, finds Rick's laser gun and tucks it safely in his other pocket. All ready now. 

Pretty Morty shows up five minutes later, sashaying coyly into the spaceship as always. The second he sees Rick’s unmoving body and his cracked skull dripping onto the dashboard, his little white hand comes up to his mouth to muffle a horrified gasp. His rosy cheeks lose all color and he looks like he’s about to faint. H312 Morty grabs his arm and shakes him hard to snap him out of it; he can’t deal with someone fainting in his ship, not right now.

“Hey,” he says coolly. “Keep it together, will you? I called you here to help me, not to put more trouble on my hands.”

Pretty Morty looks at him once, face creasing yet again as he takes in the disaster that is Morty’s right eye. But Morty’s serious tone seems to have had its desired effect, as the silly nit simply blinks his huge, doe eyes and nods once, swallowing hard. He recoils from the dead body as much as he can, until his back is pressed up against the wall.

Morty takes in his shivering, lithe form, tightly encased in the tiny yellow tank top, his curls looking neat yet luscious as always. The bile rises again in his throat and he swallows it down, painfully.

Rick had this Morty’s number saved in his phone; as a friend, he’d said. But how could a brilliant, enlightened man like Rick enjoy the friendship of such a tedious, shallow creature? What could they have talked about? Morty looks the pretty boy up and down and judges him good for one thing, and one thing only --and he knew Rick well enough to know that the scientist would have come to the same conclusion.

His hand tightens in his pocket, fingers lightly brushing the handle of his laser gun.

“How d-did this happen?” Pretty Morty asks, in a trembling whisper.

Morty turns away from him, getting a mop and a bucket of water from the storage room. He squares his shoulders, takes a deep breath. _You can do this_ , he tells himself. _You’ve got your story. Never mind that it doesn’t make sense, he’s an idiot, he won’t doubt a thing._

“A Gromflamite soldier got in,” he explains, keeping his voice as blank as he can. “He infiltrated the ship while we were making a stop on Jorzglurb-9. We didn’t notice anything until it was too late. He attacked Rick from behind while we were sleeping; I woke up, got my eye gouged up by the fucker and managed to kick him out the exit door… But I was too late.”

Pretty Morty lets out a choked sob, brown eyes filled with tears; he looks at Morty with compassion and pity, and Morty thinks he’s never seen anything more disgusting in all his life.

“Oh, M-Morty,” the pretty boy coos. “I-It isn’t your fault. There’s n-nothing you could’ve d-done…”

“I know it wasn’t my fault,” Morty says abruptly, inwardly relishing the momentary look of confusion on his other self’s face.

He grabs a towel and soaks it in the bucket of water. “Here,” he tells Pretty Morty, gesturing to the mop. “Use that to clean up the floor. I’ll take care of the dashboard; I don’t want you blowing up the ship.”

Pretty Morty complies obediently, his expression very similar to that of a kicked puppy. They clean in silence for a while, both scrubbing insistently at blood and bits of brain.

“Y-you know… H312…” Pretty Morty pipes up timidly.

“What?” Morty says, his tone clipped and icy.

“I… R-really admire how well y-you’re… coping with all th-this,” the other teenager goes on, albeit uncertainly. “I m-mean I knew how c-close you were to your Rick… I know h-how much he cared about you, a-and… I mean, if something like th-this happened to my R-Rick,” he adds, voice cracking and eyes filling up with tears again, “I d-don’t even know what I would do. G-Gosh, I think I’d w-want to die, you know? But you… Y-You’re so calm and c-composed… It’s like… I-It’s like you’re not even affected at all…”

His voice trails off. When Morty’s head snaps up to look at him, he immediately averts his eyes and starts scrubbing at the floor again. Was he afraid of Morty?

“Well… Right now all that matters is getting everything back in order so I can go after this bastard Gromflamite,” Morty replies, the lie rolling off his tongue with remarkable ease.

Pretty Morty seems convinced; he doesn’t make another comment on the matter.

“Y-you know, I don’t know w-what it is exactly,” he chirps on. “But you s-sound different from the l-last time I saw you. I-I don’t know w-what it is, but I can definitely tell s-something’s different, though I r-really couldn’t say what exactly…”

“I get it, I sound different,” Morty cuts him off before he can go on and on. That effectively gets Pretty Morty to shut up, and he lowers his head with a hurt look on his face.

When the floor and dashboard are sufficiently clean, Morty rips some gauze up and carefully wraps the strips around Rick’s head, making sure to cover every bit of exposed flesh and brain. The end result vaguely reminds him of a mummified head, and for some reason it’s even more awful to look at than his grandfather’s open cranium.

“Get me some disinfectant and bandages from the storage room,” Morty says, turning away from Rick’s gauze-covered head. “I need to take care of this eye.”

Pretty Morty hurries dutifully back to the storage room, returning with what looks like a medical aid kit. He opens it to reveal small metal clamps, which he uses to carefully remove the glass shards from the open wound. He dabs some cotton pads in disinfectant and rubs them over Morty’s damaged eye as gently as he can, wincing although Morty himself doesn’t feel any pain. He nods at Pretty Morty to let him know he can give him the bandages now, but instead of gauze, the airhead hands him what looks suspiciously like a pirate’s eyepatch.

“What the hell is this?” he asks him, annoyed.

“I-It’s the only thing I could find,” Pretty Morty squeaks apologetically. “There w-weren’t any bandages left and I, I don’t know why this was in the m-medical kit…”

Morty knows why. His thoughts briefly wander back to a memorable night six months ago, when Rick had plundered a good deal of alien rum from a stranded ship and had insisted they act out his “pirate and first mate” fantasy. Being accustomed to playing along with the scientist’s many kinks, Morty had amusedly complied. He hadn’t been too surprised to discover that Rick kept an array of judicious “accessories” aboard the ship at all times and on that night, said accessories were thorougly used. After waking up the next morning with sore limbs and a massive hangover, they’d half-assedly cleaned everything up and gotten the ship back in order.

Morty figured it wasn’t anything extraordinary that the pirate eyepatch had ended up stuffed into a first aid kit; there were stranger places where it could’ve turned up. He finds himself smiling at the memories, before catching himself and setting his face back into a placid scowl.

“It’s fine, I guess, it’ll do just as well,” he sighs, taking the eyepatch and carefully sliding it over his right eye. He feels a little shiver of excitement, stupidly, at the thought that this was once on Rick’s eye.

Even after all this time, even after what he’s done, he still can’t control that part of himself that acts like a schoolgirl in love when Rick is brought up. He supposes he never will.

“Well, I… I h-hope I helped you at least a l-little bit,” Pretty Morty chimes in suddenly, bringing him out of his grim thoughts. “I… I r-really hope you m-manage to catch the person who did this to your Rick and u-umm… I s-should probably get going, now…”

Pretty Morty stands idly in the middle of the spaceship, evidently itching to go back to his dimension, where his Rick will be waiting for him with more booze and drugs and tender kisses. The thought makes Morty want to puke.

The beautiful teenager gives him a shaky smile that immediately vanishes when Morty gets his laser gun out and points it at his head.

“What, what are you d-doing?!” he squeaks out, his voice making Morty think of a mouse --a peevish, squirming mouse he’d like to squish under his foot.

“What I’ve been planning to do since I called you,” Morty replies evenly, hand steady on his gun.

“B-but I helped you!” Pretty Morty whimpers, looking at him with tearful, pleading eyes.

“Just because you helped me clean up a little blood, doesn’t mean I’m not going to kill you now,” Morty retorts.

“Please, I-I didn’t do anything!” the other boy cries out, his entire body shaking. “I just w-want to go home! Rick is w-waiting for me!”

“I’m doing you a favor, you imbecile,” Morty snarls, patience running thin. “Didn’t you say yourself that you’d rather die if your Rick was murdered?”

Pretty Morty shakes his head, eyes going wide with confusion. “B-but he’s not… Rick’s not…”

“I’m just planning ahead,” Morty says darkly. “Tell me one more thing.”

“A-anything! Please, please j-just don’t kill me, I d-didn’t do anything wrong…”

“Did my Rick ever contact you directly?”

“I… I don’t…”

“Did he ever contact you directly, not through your Rick?” Morty insists, finger inching closer to the trigger.

Pretty Morty nods shakily, lower lip pink and poutier than ever from blubbering. His knees are practically knocking together with the force of his shaking, like a goofy character from a cartoon.

“Y-yes… But it was only to t-talk--”

Morty pulls the trigger, the sound of the shot resounding through the ship. Pretty Morty falls to the floor like a rag doll.

He drops his laser gun, kicking it away from him with his foot and walks over to the dead teenager: the shot went straight through his forehead, but it didn’t just leave a nice clean bullet wound like the gunshot victims from those PG-13 action movies; it completely blew his face apart, spectacularly ruining the once beautiful eyes and cheeks. Morty smirks with satisfaction; he feels like an artist, marveling at his masterpiece.

But he knows full well his masterpiece has yet to come. And he has no time to waste to start setting it up.

As Morty carefully readjusts Rick’s body into the passenger seat, he remembers what Pretty Morty had said to him about the way he speaks. With a start, he realizes what’s different now: his stutter’s gone. _Huh_ , he thinks. _That’s strange_. Apparently, something about killing Rick and putting a hole in another Morty’s face had served as the therapy his mother always wanted him to get.

He takes Rick’s phone out of his pocket, flipping through the contacts list again. The thing was useful: now he knew exactly where he had to go and how to get there.

Morty glances back at Pretty Morty’s carcass lying haphazardly on the floor, and resists the temptation to spit on it. He looks back towards Rick, and his eyes grow softer, fonder.

“Sleep tight, Rick,” he whispers soothingly. “We’re in for a long ride.”

Time to show K-lax addict Rick what he’d done to his precious little Morty.


	12. Chapter 12

When Morty wakes up, everything is dark and still. Nothing unusual about that: he’d been sleeping less and less recently with all the work he had on his hands, and at some point it seemed that his body just grew accustomed to it. He woke up naturally before the sunrise, which was pretty early on this planet --but it didn’t make much difference here, the sun being absolutely tiny and far away from them.

Morty had made sure to set up camp on the least hospitable planet he could find; trying to stay under the Citadel’s radar (and, generally speaking, avoiding the presence of Ricks) meant that he’d had to go to the ends of the universe. There was literally nothing of any worth on this planet: no intelligent life forms, no useful animals, no precious minerals that could be bartered for drugs --so nothing that could attract a Rick’s attention.

Morty sits up on the bed, yawns and stretches briefly before pulling his clothes on. He tries not to look at Rick, laying next to him, the sheets covering him from head to toe so that the contours of his body are only slightly visible. Not a sound comes out of him as Morty gets dressed, brushes his teeth and gets himself cleaned up in the adjacent toilet. _Of course not_ , Morty scoffs to himself bitterly. _Rick’s still sleeping, isn’t he._

Before walking back into the bedroom, he takes a deep breath, squares his shoulders. No matter how many times he’s had to do this now, it never really gets easier. Morty prepares himself mentally and pens the door, holding his old taxidermy kit in his closed fist. It had gone unused for a long time, but had proved useful again just recently; Morty knew he was right not to throw it away.

Rick’s skin is holding up remarkably well: with the exception of a grayish hue that had started to get darker around his eyes, there was little to no sign of decay. Here and there Morty can see a few dark blue spots on his body, progressively becoming purple like bruises. He supposes that’s fine: no one would see it anyway. _You’ll see it_ , a voice whispers in his head. _Shut up_ , he tells it.

The most important part are the teeth: if Morty hadn’t been taking diligent care of them every day, they would have gone black a long time ago. He brushes them firmly but carefully as to not damage them; then, he takes a little wet towel and wipes them down, each of them, leaving them spotless. They do look a bit yellow, but then again Rick never had the Colgate smile even when he was alive.

Next step is the glass eyes: Morty cleans those out and polishes them as well. Rick would never have let dust get into his eyes: he needs his sharp vision more than any of his other senses, to analyze equations and assemble complex machine out of extremely minute parts.

He wonders if he should get his saw out, take a quick look at the bundle of wires tucked neatly into Rick’s brain cavity. He decides against it; he’d checked it last week already, and the artificial brain appears to be holding up fine. Morty thanks the Citadel of Ricks for that: they’d done a good job of perfecting their experiment on Z346 Morty. A shame they hadn’t spent quite as much effort in protecting the experiment’s blueprints, Morty reflects sardonically. It had been way too easy to sneak into the Council’s private quarters.

With Rick being all cleaned up and proper, Morty covers him up again with the sheet and exits the bedroom, for good this time. He makes his way down a long, darkly-lit hallway. It never ceases to amaze him how dark and cool this place is all the time, despite the lights and heating he put in thanks to a geothermal energy generator. Maybe it’s the fact that they’re several miles under the surface of the planet, miles away from what scant sunlight there is.

He walks into the main room, switches on the lights, switches on the speakers. The way-too-bright, artificial neon lights blind him. The sound of multiple people screaming and crying at once hits his his ears, giving him an instantaneous headache. Morty groans and sits on one of the leather armchairs, eyes lazily running over the dozens of screens covering the walls of the room. To anyone else, seeing their own face times a thousand, deformed by pain and anguish, would have been nightmare material. H312 Morty’s too used to it to be repulsed, or even amused.

After his Rick died, Morty had spent weeks and months putting his plan together. The main idea had offered itself up quite effortlessly: get rid of Ricks altogether. It would be better for him, better for the universe, better for Ricks themselves in the end: after all, they were selfish, irresponsable, self-destructive, alcoholic assholes who were too smart for their own good. They stirred up trouble wherever they went and always left a mess behind them, leaving everyone else to clean it up and make excuses for them. Sooner or later they ended up driving themselves crazy or being hunted down by whoever they’d happened to screw over the most in the shortest amount of time. Either that or their brains just attracted the wrong kind of attention, like elephants poached for their ivory. Despite their arrogance and megalomaniac delusions, Ricks were an endangered species. By eliminating them one by one, Morty was simply speeding things along.

And Morties, well, Morties were barely worth thinking about. Most of them took a lot of crap, either as an indirect consequence of loitering around Ricks, or the damage was dealt by the Ricks themselves. Perhaps one might have more pity for them if they at least had the shadow of a backbone. As it is, Morty has no more compassion for them than for the worms he crushes under his feet.

But even worms can still be useful as bait; and so were Morties. He’d discovered this when he’d killed his very first Morty: he hadn’t even needed to hunt down the corresponding Rick. The old fool had practically come knocking at his door, demanding to know where his pretty airhead was. Even when dealing with Ricks who didn’t give two shits about what happened to their Morty (which was much more common), H312 Morty had found a way to put them to good use. If even a single Morty could camouflage a Rick’s presence, that meant he’d be able to get a virtually impenetrable cloaking device by gathering several thousands of Morties in one place. For an approximative number of, say, three thousand Morties, the peculiar brainwaves of one Rick would be practically untraceable. _Not to mention_ , Morty thought with a half-smirk, _it's great fun to watch the simpering idiots squirm_. The hateful laughter of Pretty Morty still haunts him in his dreams.

And so the Morty hunt had begun: he’d been able to get quite a decent army of the spineless little cretins. As an added measure of precaution, he made sure to stimulate the Morties as frequently as possible: severe electric shocks administered constantly managed to keep their brain activity elevated at all times.

All in all, life is going pretty good for Morty: his days are full of work, but at least there’s no time to be bored; no time left to think. Between stimulating his flocks of Morties and taking care of Rick, he’s got his hands full. It’s never good when he actually has a minute or two to himself. He always starts wondering if things could have gone a different way, or if he was destined to end up where he is now: hiding on a deserted planet with a dead puppet and an army of Morties.

Rick had never believed in things like destiny or fate. Before their meeting, Morty had never believed in them either.

He tries to convince himself that there was no other way. It hurts too much to think about what could’ve been, if only Rick hadn’t felt so absurdly, stupidly guilty for leaving their family behind, if only Rick hadn’t taken an interest in other Morties, if only Rick hadn’t gotten so angry and said such cruel things. If only Morty could have handled things better.

But this isn’t his fault. Everything just got… Out of his control.

At times he feels like he’s on top of the world. He keeps track of every Rick’s moves in a thousand mile radius, always exactly one step ahead of them. They never see him coming: out of the fourteen Ricks he’s killed in the past two months, he’s positive not one of them has guessed who was the true mastermind behind everything. They’d never guess in a thousand years that a Morty could outsmart a Rick; H312 is convinced that even if he were to reveal himself, they wouldn’t believe it. But he doesn’t mind not getting credit, as long as it serves his purpose in the end. After all, everyone knows that a Rick’s pride is his Achilles’ tendon.

The nights are a bit long sometimes, Morty has to admit. When the Morties’ screams get a little too loud and the memories get a little too painful, he likes to close his eyes and pretend he’s in a place far, far away from all of this. He likes to lie down in bed and make Rick lie down next to him, eyes closed and snoring lightly. He forces himself not to fall asleep, concentrating on keeping Rick’s breathing continuous and even, pushing the illusion as far and for as long as he can. It usually works; Morty’s gotten remarkably good at controlling the scientist’s artificial brain. He barely even has to remind himself of it anymore, it just comes naturally: he’s accustomed to thinking for two, sleeping for two, feeling for two. His thoughts are Rick’s thoughts and his emotions are Rick’s emotions. They’ve never been more in sync.

Sometimes, Morty talks to Rick as they lay in the dark together, cuddled up beneath the blankets. He tells Rick about his dreams and their travels, all the adventures they’ve been through and all the ones they’ve yet to undertake. He makes Rick laugh at his jokes and answer his questions and hug him and kiss him until he’s too exhausted to control his own brain, let alone someone else’s. But it’s not awkward, even when he feels himself drift off into sleep and Rick is beside him, eyes stubbornly open and body unnaturally still. Morty’s gotten used to it: if he takes Rick in his arms and holds him very, very close, he can fool himself into thinking that the deep, peaceful breathing he hears is coming from both of them instead of just himself. He can fool himself into forgetting that he’s falling asleep every night holding a dead man in his arms.

It just makes it that much harder to accept when he wakes up and Rick’s body is cold, so cold next to him.

But he can take it: H312 Morty is nothing if not resilient. He’s proven that to himself, even if his grandfather will never be there to give his approval. He tries to convince himself he doesn’t need it anymore, that he’s readjusted just fine to living in complete loneliness. After all, it’s not really anything new to him; when he looks around at everything he’s managed to build, he gets a striking feeling of déjà-vu, as if he were back in his old bedroom among all the small, wide-eyed sparrows. _Guess the wise old squirrel did end up falling for a sparrow’s tricks._

Morty shakes himself out of his thoughts. He doesn’t have time to waste. There’s a new Rick to catch and this one seems particularly interesting. Rick from dimension C-137: the one who’d once taken him for a Rick over the phone.

Morty gets to his feet and walks over to the giant screens, arms crossed behind his back like a general preparing for war. He knows that his Rick is just waking up, standing and stretching with a yawn before getting dressed. He knows Rick is closing the bedroom door and making his way down the hall; he knows the precise instant each one of his steps hits the floor, even though he can’t hear them. He knows that in less than a minute, Rick will be walking through the door; Morty hasn’t decided what he’ll say yet. He’ll have to act surprised.

The Morties on the screens are still howling, their jaws almost distended from the effort. Some are crying, but the oldest ones have run out of tears: their sobs are dry and they eyes are glassy. The pale thin bodies look like long-limbed, skeletal spiders, set naked on a plastic dish and about to be dissected. Somewhere in the midst of all his sorrow and exhaustion, Morty feels a sick twinge of pride; he doubts that if God himself existed, he’d have been able to build a better hell than this.

The door slams open and Rick walks into the room with confident, powerful strides. His mouth is twisted into the maniacal, wide grin that Morty had always loved so much, and his eyes are sparkling with lively enthusiasm --good thing Morty had polished them this morning.

“A-all right, uuurrp, Morty,” he greets him. “D-do we have a lead on C-137?”

Morty nods, instantly slipping back into his meek role: it’s comfortable, easy, like a fish slipping back into its natural element.

“Yes, R-Rick,” he answers, stance straight and alert like a faithful little soldier. “W-we got him. Snatching his portal g-gun should be a piece of cake.”

Rick chuckles satisfyingly, extending his hand towards him; Morty is already bending his neck in expectation, waiting for the token of praise he knows is coming.

“That’s m-my good boy,” Rick says fondly as he ruffles his hair. “I-I can always count on you, M-Morty. It’s you and m-me now, you and me against the world, yeah?”

Morty smiles radiantly up at the scientist and lowers his head. A few sparks of excitement course through him, but try as he might, he can’t feed them into flames. All he’d ever wanted was to hear Rick say these words to him, and while it’s not exactly what he gets, he’ll have to make do with just Rick’s voice.

“Y-Yes, Rick. Always.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whelp, there you go. As I think I've said, I'm not very satisfied with how this fic turned out; but since it was already finished I thought I might as well post it. I hope you enjoyed it! :)


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